Nature Has the Write of Way (second draft, title change)

[peacejazzspirit]

Nature Has the Write of Way

Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
A seaman with nothing but a fishing hook
tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to rid himself
of the guilt that plagued him at stealing
that feeble pheasant from its mother too soon,
plucking a lustrous feather from the fallen fowl
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his conscience.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
subtly tingeing her brown hair shades of copper.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, she sat and pondered
the cruelties of give and take.
Her eye still throbbing and her masterpiece pristine,
she longed for frustration and a blank page.

Lessons Learned *Original*

Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
These visions flashed through my mind
in a brief yet vivid sequence:
a seaman on a beach, with nothing but a
fishing hook tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to unleash the guilt
that plagued his conscience at stealing
that feeble sparrow from its mother too soon,
plucking a feather from the fallen bird
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his guilt.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
highlighting her brown hair shades of red.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, there she sat,
wishing for the frustration to overtake her once more,
because sometimes it's better to have none of something
than to have too much.

Well here it is: the product of my stream of consciousness. The offspring of my writer's block and a bit too much Wilbur Smith Egyptian novels involving blood. Honestly I expected it to be worse. I didn't intend to post it but I want to improve it, if it's not totally trash. So I would greatly appreciate any feedback. Thanks in advance!

[just mercedes]

Hi PJS. I like your passion for expression, but felt I had to comment on:

1. Fishermen don't write in the sand with fish hooks, in my experience. A keen fisherman would never risk damaging his tool like that.
2. Hunters don't shoot sparrows. Bullets are too expensive. Mostly they're netted.
3. Your protagonist is very one-eyed about writing. ;-)

[ellajam]

There's plenty good in this, I think it could use a little trim, but it was an interesting way to come at it. I don't really understand how the guilt and the girl go together, bit I'm willing to give that some time.

Lessons Learned

Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature. You might be able to condense the first two lines into an interesting title.
These visions flashed through my mind
in a brief yet vivid sequence: I don't think you need these two lines.
a seaman on a beach, with nothing but a weak break when you've got some great words on the next line that you could bring up. I think you could cut "on a beach" (you've got wet sand).
fishing hook tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to unleash the guilt
that plagued his conscience at stealing
that feeble sparrow from its mother too soon,
plucking a feather from the fallen bird
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree Love these two lines.
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his guilt. You've already told us of the guilt, I'm not sure you needed to say it outright the first time, you already used "victims" above, but I'm not a fan of this repeat.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
highlighting her brown hair shades of red. I think you could say this better.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye, Love this, the stylus surprised me.
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, there she sat,
wishing for the frustration to overtake her once more,
because sometimes it's better to have none of something
than to have too much. I think you should rethink these last four lines, I'm sure you could say it it a more concise and interesting way.  

Good read, thanks for posting it.

Well here it is: the product of my stream of consciousness. The offspring of my writer's block and a bit too much Wilbur Smith Egyptian novels involving blood. Honestly I expected it to be worse. I didn't intend to post it but I want to improve it, if it's not totally trash. So I would greatly appreciate any feedback. Thanks in advance!

[abu nuwas]

No, it's not total trash, but....

Sometimes people have an idea, a good one, maybe worth a sonnet-thing poem, but they inflate it, until it becomes v thin. You have done the opposite: a great number of ideas - all vivid - but not really going far. There are, I think, several poems, or seeds of poems, in there, trying to escape.  Some serious midwifery is called for! Your final lines suggest you have an inkling of this. Good luck if you decide to stick with the writing theme !

[peacejazzspirit]

Here is the second draft, thanks to all who critiqued!

[Wjames]

Nature Has the Write of Way

Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
A seaman with nothing but a fishing hook Did nature actually give seamen fishing hooks?
tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;  I like the specificity, helps me actually visualize it.
a hunter in the woods, desperate to rid himself
of the guilt that plagued him at stealing
that feeble pheasant from its mother too soon,
plucking a lustrous feather from the fallen fowl
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his conscience. How does dipping a feather in some sap help him ease his conscience? Does he use the feather as a quill and write or something?
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
subtly tingeing her brown hair shades of copper.  I don't think you need "shades of", it doesn't add anything for me.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.  A little too melodramatic for my taste.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears, Where did the blood come from? Did she pierce her eye or something?
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, she sat and pondered
the cruelties of give and take.
Her eye still throbbing and her masterpiece pristine,
she longed for frustration and a blank page. I don't get why she wants a blank page again without the explanation of the original. However, I don't like the outright explanation of the original as it isn't very poetic (in my eyes). Explain it to me without resorting to explanation.

Lessons Learned *Original*

Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
These visions flashed through my mind
in a brief yet vivid sequence:
a seaman on a beach, with nothing but a
fishing hook tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to unleash the guilt
that plagued his conscience at stealing
that feeble sparrow from its mother too soon,
plucking a feather from the fallen bird
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his guilt.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
highlighting her brown hair shades of red.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, there she sat,
wishing for the frustration to overtake her once more,
because sometimes it's better to have none of something
than to have too much.

Well here it is: the product of my stream of consciousness. The offspring of my writer's block and a bit too much Wilbur Smith Egyptian novels involving blood. Honestly I expected it to be worse. I didn't intend to post it but I want to improve it, if it's not totally trash. So I would greatly appreciate any feedback. Thanks in advance!

I like the irony of the title. I sort of agree with abu nuwas that there's enough ideas in here for more than one poem. How is all this writer's block stuff related to the seaman/hunter? I sort of get that the pain of hunting/killing motivates the seaman/hunter to write (I think), but how is that related to the girl?

Hopefully this helps you out a bit; thanks for sharing.

[peacejazzspirit]

Thanks for your feedback, WJ. I see what you mean about the fishing hook at the beginning... I'll figure something out for that one. And I should have been more specific, yes, I meant the hunter to use the feather as a quill. I'll use your suggestions, thanks

[billy]

just an aside about nature and fishing hooks; yes they do come from nature moulded by man but nonetheless organic in nature on most levels.

[billy]

at present it feels heavy and wordy. you've got some good lines in there though and it wouldn't take much to lighten the piece and make the relevant parts stand out the more.

and example;

Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.

Some people have only the pen
and paper provided by nature.

less is often more. you have all the straightforward write. now do a line by line and turn it into something that resonates with each of us. google enjambment and see if line endings can be altered or moved. in the latter half of the poem it becomes emo like. use metaphor but try and be more subtle.

Nature Has the Write of Way

Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
A seaman with nothing but a fishing hook
tainted with the dried blood of his victims titans
to carve his words into [s]the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to rid himself
of the guilt that plagued him at stealing
that feeble pheasant from its mother too soon,
plucking a lustrous feather from the fallen fowl
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his conscience.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
subtly tingeing her brown hair shades of copper.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, she sat and pondered
the cruelties of give and take.
Her eye still throbbing and her masterpiece pristine,
she longed for frustration and a blank page.

[peacejazzspirit]

Appreciate your feedback Billy, a little wordy I agree. Enjambment, I have no idea what that means so I'll definitely Google it. Emo like you say?? Wonder why, am I this emo teen who stays locked in her room and writes all day about tormented writers like herself getting stabbed in the eye with their writing materials and never realized it before? Nah... I'm quite the opposite, but my mind was in a darker place when I wrote this. Thanks once more.