A Binding Love

[tectak]

Fear brought me here; he binds my hands, my chest, my thoughts.
The man who shares me holds  the cords that tighten,
choke and keep me tied; but who am I? My soul, a broken glaze
on  dull and blood-crazed sunken eyes, I do not recognise.

If ever light was bright enough for you to glance in guilt
upon my face (whilst in your  lustful, thrusting throws),
or if I cried because my breasts were aching,
or if I screamed because you tore those parts of me
where tender touch should float me into warming sea
of gentle waves...would you then think you loved me?

It is too late. I have no secret places anymore.
If in some darkened, piss-filled room (where you, too, are unknown),
you hear my given name; then ask for me. I will be here.
I do not know what I have left to sell or what you want from me.
The fear that binds me shivers and confines me...
but you are free to think that you are loved.

Extract from report "Sex Markets on Teesside, 2013" Commissioned by Northern Rock Foundation.
"For example, one agency said of a client “she would get beaten up regularly”, another said “there is always reports of violence, like sex workers being strangled, left for dead, in a coma for three weeks”. "

tectak2015

[ChristopherSea]

Hi Tom, long time no see!

It’s a darkling tale and you have created a lot of atmosphere herein.
I have some thoughts for your next edit.

I would suggest replacing ‘; he’ with something else. A simple ‘and’ could work,
just to delay the reveal of this beast until we reach ‘The man.’

You have some extra spaces throughout, specifically between ‘holds  the,’
‘on  dull’ and ‘your  lustful’ unless they were intentional.

I am stumbling a bit on line 2 of stanza 2. First, 'in guilt' sounds off.
It could be me, but what about 'with guilt.' Second, if you rhyme with face
it might fare better. For example: ‘upon my face (whilst in your base and lustful throws)’

I want that ‘piss-filled’ to be ‘cum-stained’ to be more inline with the sexual deviance.

In your closing line, a comma after ‘binds me’ seems to be called for to create
some pause and tension. Also, ‘think’ seems a bit weak in the close, something like,
‘…free to dream/deem/muse...’ may be more poignant.

See what you think. Cheers, my mentor./Chris

[sunilmathur]

I will not critique your poem, Mr. tectak, but get it critiqued by you. "You may get away with unadulterated prose just out of RTF school masquerading as poetry on some eulogy sites but not here". You should not "think that meterless, rhymeless text makes poetry". These are your words, aren't they? So let us examine your poem by your own standards. What is this first stanza of yours, if not 'unadulterated prose"? Let us write it out without the line breaks. Here it is: "Fear brought me here. He binds my hands, my chest, my thoughts. The man who shares me holds the cords that tighten, choke and keep me tied. But who am I? My soul, a broken glaze on dull and blood-crazed, sunken eyes, I do not recognize". Now who would say this is not prose but poetry? Do you think the line breaks, the colons and semi-colons or the inverted syntax at the end, will make it poetry? And, by the way, you are very much against inverted syntax. So why this inverted syntax: "My soul...I do not recognize"? As far as rhyming is concerned, I could not discern even an attempt at achieving it. But didn't you say that 'rhymeless text' does not make poetry? Again, I could not find any evidence of meter either. The first very elementary thing to do in this regard is to count the number of syllables in each line in this stanza. My count is as follows: 12, 11, 15, 14. So the very first test of meter fails when applied to your first stanza. I am not an expert at delineating stressed and unstressed syllables, but even with my little knowledge in this regard, I can say that there is no rhythmic pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables in your poem. If there is, please let us know how. So where are the rhyme and meter without which, as per your own statement, the writing is not a poem at all? You are also a stickler for 'poetic' words and expressions. How 'poetic' is "given name"? Is the word 'given' even necessary? And why, at the end of your poems, are you always referring to some extracts from some report? Is this your idea of originality?

[tectak]

I will not critique your poem, Mr. tectak, but get it critiqued by you. "You may get away with unadulterated prose just out of RTF school masquerading as poetry on some eulogy sites but not here". You should not "think that meterless, rhymeless text makes poetry". These are your words, aren't they? So let us examine your poem by your own standards. What is this first stanza of yours, if not 'unadulterated prose"? Let us write it out without the line breaks. Here it is: "Fear brought me here. He binds my hands, my chest, my thoughts. The man who shares me holds the cords that tighten, choke and keep me tied. But who am I? My soul, a broken glaze on dull and blood-crazed, sunken eyes, I do not recognize". Now who would say this is not prose but poetry? Do you think the line breaks, the colons and semi-colons or the inverted syntax at the end, will make it poetry? And, by the way, you are very much against inverted syntax. So why this inverted syntax: "My soul...I do not recognize"? As far as rhyming is concerned, I could not discern even an attempt at achieving it. But didn't you say that 'rhymeless text' does not make poetry? Again, I could not find any evidence of meter either. The first very elementary thing to do in this regard is to count the number of syllables in each line in this stanza. My count is as follows: 12, 11, 15, 14. So the very first test of meter fails when applied to your first stanza. I am not an expert at delineating stressed and unstressed syllables, but even with my little knowledge in this regard, I can say that there is no rhythmic pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables in your poem. If there is, please let us know how. So where are the rhyme and meter without which, as per your own statement, the writing is not a poem at all? You are also a stickler for 'poetic' words and expressions. How 'poetic' is "given name"? Is the word 'given' even necessary? And why, at the end of your poems, are you always referring to some extracts from some report? Is this your idea of originality?

Hi sunil,
I agree completely with all of your comments...or should I say my comments. That is what critique is all about. Now, the lesson to be learned here is that ALL IS OPINION. What I dislike in the work of others I dislike in my own....but accept graciously whatever effort the critiques put in to trying to IMPROVE my work.
Now, if several people suggest that I have used the wrong word, or I have become too "wordy", or obscure beyond reason, or make poor enfeebled attempts to rhyme then I am inclined to believe that the opinion is valid.
You should note that there is no obligation, either through dogma or derision, to comply with any of the stipulations we believe makes "poetry". Rhyme, meter, syllable count and whatever else would be by one seen to be poetic may by another be seen to be worthlessy tied to dictat and tradition. The fact remains that one instinctively knows when what is written works. The problem is, it is more likely to work for the writer than the reader...so I thank you wholeheartedly for my critique of my work...but would much prefer that you wrote both your poetry and your critique in words of your own.  
Best,
tectak

---

Hi Tom, long time no see!

It’s a darkling tale and you have created a lot of atmosphere herein.
I have some thoughts for your next edit.

I would suggest replacing ‘; he’ with something else. A simple ‘and’ could work,
just to delay the reveal of this beast until we reach ‘The man.’

You have some extra spaces throughout, specifically between ‘holds  the,’
‘on  dull’ and ‘your  lustful’ unless they were intentional.

I am stumbling a bit on line 2 of stanza 2. First, 'in guilt' sounds off.
It could be me, but what about 'with guilt.' Second, if you rhyme with face
it might fare better. For example: ‘upon my face (whilst in your base and lustful throws)’

I want that ‘piss-filled’ to be ‘cum-stained’ to be more inline with the sexual deviance.

In your closing line, a comma after ‘binds me’ seems to be called for to create
some pause and tension. Also, ‘think’ seems a bit weak in the close, something like,
‘…free to dream/deem/muse...’ may be more poignant.

See what you think. Cheers, my mentor./Chris

Hi chris,
Insightful as always. I have not made clear that the first "he" is not the last "you". The first "he" is the enslaver, the second "you" is the "client". Nonetheless, the point is made and will take some time to put right.

The "spaces" are caused by conversion from *.doc to *docx and back on my bloody tablet. They are in no way intentional.

I had missed the "in guilt/with guilt" option. I believe I have used "...in guilt he wakes" before...no...it was "through guilt"...so this will change.

Rhymes...bloody rhymes...I think in rhymes and sometimes they pop out without my knowledge. This one is not for rhyming but I have tried to paradoxically keep a tight grip on the narrative so that we get a kind of loose soliloquy. It is quite deliberate and has been messed with a good deal.

Chopping up prose rarely makes for good poetry if enjambment, cameo thoughts, metaphors and a certain Gestalt approach to spoken thoughts are not apparent. It just ends up as text with bus-stops where thoughts jump on and off in a random fashion. You may feel that this is occuring here. Let me know.

That last line is irksome. I wanted the strange triality of "free" to be consequential. That is to say free as in gratis (body), free as in liberty(spirit) and free as in thinking (soul)...did it work? Obviously not.

Piss-filled is a reference, UK?, to being inebriated and here I am taking the reference too far, methinks. I was after the "piss-filled" room as a sleezy bar with predatorial inebriates adding to the generally unhealthy environment. Years ago I  had the debatably enlivening experience of visiting such a dive in Middlesbro (the location in the report on which the piece is based)  and can assure you that piss-filled is a wholly spontaneous precursor to something cum-stained...but not yet.

Again, a very fine critique which will be acted upon. It is always encouraging to hear how the transmitted is received  especially from the perceptive among us.(creep )
Very Best,
tectak

[Leanne]

Fear brought me here; he binds my hands, my chest, my thoughts. -- the use of "he" brings wonderful personification that is carried throughout the poem, blending the partner and the fear into one
The man who shares me holds  the cords that tighten,
choke and keep me tied; but who am I? My soul, a broken glaze -- strong sonics here, particularly with the alliterative "t" and "s/z" and the assonant "i" 
on  dull and blood-crazed sunken eyes, I do not recognise.

If ever light was bright enough for you to glance in guilt
upon my face (whilst in your  lustful, thrusting throws),
or if I cried because my breasts were aching,
or if I screamed because you tore those parts of me -- it's tempting to suggest you remove "if I" from this line, for the sake of the rhythm
where tender touch should float me into warming sea -- bit of a meter hiccup in this line, where "into" disrupts -- I'd suggest "float me through a warming sea" instead
of gentle waves...would you then think you loved me? -- reading this stanza aloud is particularly effective -- the line breaks are perfect as they allow both lengthy musing and a bit of an abrupt spit of bitterness

It is too late. I have no secret places anymore. 
If in some darkened, piss-filled room (where you, too, are unknown),
you hear my given name; then ask for me. I will be here. -- "given name" is powerful -- not even this is hers by right, but has been gifted her like a trinket -- for a woman, a name is a conflicting thing.  The surname marks ownership by the father first, then the husband, but the given name is worthless without it for every agency or place of power.
I do not know what I have left to sell or what you want from me.
The fear that binds me shivers and confines me...
but you are free to think that you are loved. -- the shift of address and tone here gives the poem a clear volta, almost as if spoken by a different person -- and this is where the authenticity of your writing comes through the strongest, as you clearly "get" what's happening in the mind of the victim.  For the record, this is the same or similar mindset for sex workers as it is for women in marriages/ domestic relationships -- the only real difference is the duration of the experience.  

Extract from report "Sex Markets on Teesside, 2013" Commissioned by Northern Rock Foundation.
"For example, one agency said of a client “she would get beaten up regularly”, another said “there is always reports of violence, like sex workers being strangled, left for dead, in a coma for three weeks”. "

tectak2015

[tectak]

Fear brought me here; he binds my hands, my chest, my thoughts. -- the use of "he" brings wonderful personification that is carried throughout the poem, blending the partner and the fear into one
The man who shares me holds  the cords that tighten,
choke and keep me tied; but who am I? My soul, a broken glaze -- strong sonics here, particularly with the alliterative "t" and "s/z" and the assonant "i" 
on  dull and blood-crazed sunken eyes, I do not recognise.

If ever light was bright enough for you to glance in guilt
upon my face (whilst in your  lustful, thrusting throws),
or if I cried because my breasts were aching,
or if I screamed because you tore those parts of me -- it's tempting to suggest you remove "if I" from this line, for the sake of the rhythm
where tender touch should float me into warming sea -- bit of a meter hiccup in this line, where "into" disrupts -- I'd suggest "float me through a warming sea" instead
of gentle waves...would you then think you loved me? -- reading this stanza aloud is particularly effective -- the line breaks are perfect as they allow both lengthy musing and a bit of an abrupt spit of bitterness

It is too late. I have no secret places anymore. 
If in some darkened, piss-filled room (where you, too, are unknown),
you hear my given name; then ask for me. I will be here. -- "given name" is powerful -- not even this is hers by right, but has been gifted her like a trinket -- for a woman, a name is a conflicting thing.  The surname marks ownership by the father first, then the husband, but the given name is worthless without it for every agency or place of power.
I do not know what I have left to sell or what you want from me.
The fear that binds me shivers and confines me...
but you are free to think that you are loved. -- the shift of address and tone here gives the poem a clear volta, almost as if spoken by a different person -- and this is where the authenticity of your writing comes through the strongest, as you clearly "get" what's happening in the mind of the victim.  For the record, this is the same or similar mindset for sex workers as it is for women in marriages/ domestic relationships -- the only real difference is the duration of the experience.  

Extract from report "Sex Markets on Teesside, 2013" Commissioned by Northern Rock Foundation.
"For example, one agency said of a client “she would get beaten up regularly”, another said “there is always reports of violence, like sex workers being strangled, left for dead, in a coma for three weeks”. "

tectak2015

Hi leanne,
your perceptive and constructive critique will lead to changes. There are compicated issues in this which cover sins of syntax as much as the the sin of slavery (to fact, as well as to poetic dogma).
Loose narrative is difficult for me...I have to work at it, as I must also struggle to keep authenticity with the character without seeming to be playing fast and..er...loose with the poetic ethos.
The note at the end is at the end, not the beginning. Footnotes, yes. Intros, no. Nothing is new under the sun, but your comment on this extended problem may throw up another piece in this vein. Thanks again.
Best,
tectak

[isabelhershko]

Fear brought me here; he binds my hands, my chest, my thoughts.
The man who shares me holds  the cords that tighten,
choke and keep me tied; but who am I? My soul, a broken glaze
on  dull and blood-crazed sunken eyes, I do not recognise.

If ever light was bright enough for you to glance in guilt
upon my face (whilst in your  lustful, thrusting throws),
or if I cried because my breasts were aching,
or if I screamed because you tore those parts of me
where tender touch should float me into warming sea
of gentle waves...would you then think you loved me?

It is too late. I have no secret places anymore.
If in some darkened, piss-filled room (where you, too, are unknown),
you hear my given name; then ask for me. I will be here.
I do not know what I have left to sell or what you want from me.
The fear that binds me shivers and confines me...
but you are free to think that you are loved.

Extract from report "Sex Markets on Teesside, 2013" Commissioned by Northern Rock Foundation.
"For example, one agency said of a client “she would get beaten up regularly”, another said “there is always reports of violence, like sex workers being strangled, left for dead, in a coma for three weeks”. "

tectak2015

I really enjoy the context of what you're writing about, but I feel like there are too many abstractions for such a visceral experience. I would love to know more about the physical sensations that are being experienced here. I think theres a way to express reactions through the wording of explanation of these experiences without leaving it abstract. I want to know what that rope feels like, the sensation of being choked. I had a professor once tell me you need to earn your abstractions and I think there are some that would work wonderfully here if only there was a bit more specificity. Your opening is strong, that's for sure. I'm immediately captivated by what's happening and I'm eager to know more. I think you're on the right track in the second stanza, where the poem because a bit closer to explaining the physical sensations of the experience. If you can tighten that and apply it to the rest of the poem, I think you've got something very strong.

[tectak]

Fear brought me here; he binds my hands, my chest, my thoughts.
The man who shares me holds  the cords that tighten,
choke and keep me tied; but who am I? My soul, a broken glaze
on  dull and blood-crazed sunken eyes, I do not recognise.

If ever light was bright enough for you to glance in guilt
upon my face (whilst in your  lustful, thrusting throws),
or if I cried because my breasts were aching,
or if I screamed because you tore those parts of me
where tender touch should float me into warming sea
of gentle waves...would you then think you loved me?

It is too late. I have no secret places anymore.
If in some darkened, piss-filled room (where you, too, are unknown),
you hear my given name; then ask for me. I will be here.
I do not know what I have left to sell or what you want from me.
The fear that binds me shivers and confines me...
but you are free to think that you are loved.

Extract from report "Sex Markets on Teesside, 2013" Commissioned by Northern Rock Foundation.
"For example, one agency said of a client “she would get beaten up regularly”, another said “there is always reports of violence, like sex workers being strangled, left for dead, in a coma for three weeks”. "

tectak2015

I really enjoy the context of what you're writing about, but I feel like there are too many abstractions for such a visceral experience. I would love to know more about the physical sensations that are being experienced here. I think theres a way to express reactions through the wording of explanation of these experiences without leaving it abstract. I want to know what that rope feels like, the sensation of being choked. I had a professor once tell me you need to earn your abstractions and I think there are some that would work wonderfully here if only there was a bit more specificity. Your opening is strong, that's for sure. I'm immediately captivated by what's happening and I'm eager to know more. I think you're on the right track in the second stanza, where the poem because a bit closer to explaining the physical sensations of the experience. If you can tighten that and apply it to the rest of the poem, I think you've got something very strong.

Hi Isaba,
I note a sense of dashed expectations in your critique and must admit to guilty as charged. There are no mitigating circumstances because this is quintessentially a piece of veracity verse...that is to say it was written to "tell" an individual's story, from that perspective. The teller, I decided, would be far more likely to question the motivations of her antagonists than to go through a painful reconstruction of her thoughts on just how agonising was the rope, rape or recidivist's roughness. It is, then, a simple self analysis of just how a hopeless situation brings on paralysis of thinking and, not unnaturally, aquiescence to the extent of acceptance. The small voice in her head is thinking the thoughts. They are small thoughts...my kind of thoughts.
Nonetheless, you make a case for more extensive analysis of this and many other's plight...but that would involve big thoughts and I do not have the knowledge to walk in those shoes.
Perhaps you do....?
Best,
tectak