He is time

[REW]

Current Revision:

He is time


who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm,
loves me from the winking moon,
and offers wisdom from the stars.

But he moves too slow when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teases me to try and catch him. 
 
Might as well attempt 
to hold a slippery water snake.

During revolutions around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
to vibrant like new green leaves
and virgin blooms--to tired,
weathered as wood shingles 
near the shore--pounded by storms.
 
Learning the art of balancing hourglasses 
and walking without watching the sand drain 
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.

He instructs me to pluck those first white 
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there 
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say, 
“farewell father, father time.”     

Revision

He is time

 
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm.
He loves me from the winking moon,
and offers me wisdom from the stars.

But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teasing me to try and catch him. 
 
Might as well attempt 
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as wood shingles 
near the shore--pounded by storms.
 
To learn the art of balancing hourglasses 
and walking without watching the sand drain 
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.

He instructs me to pluck those first white 
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there 
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say, 
“farewell father, father time.”      

Original:

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard. But in the end
knowledge, a friend. How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

[71degrees]

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

Was curious as to why you abandon the rhyme scheme, yet bring it back at the end. I'd get rid of it altogether, myself, but this is only a personal preference. Reason? I started looking for it and forget the poem for a few seconds. There are little things (e.g. you have a question to end stanza 5, yet no mark to reference it). Again, stuff like this made me think of something else beside your poem.

Love S3. Nice.

intro into the poem was a bit confusing also. "kisses" is a bit odd to start. I've seen poets use the title as a step into the first line of the poem but yours really doesn't do that, at least grammatically.

Like the internal rhyme (e.g. sun/run & there/care). Stuff like that moves me along in the poem and shares the musicality of the rhythm w/o being intrusive.

That's all I got. Thanks for posting.

[Weeded]

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn, hmm... This sounds like a complete sentence, kinda...
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm, I feel like this is missing a syllable or two. Or maybe keep this but swap it with the line below; the transition from dawn to stars to moon would feel more comfortable and the change of flow from this line could benefit the transition to the next stanza as well
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him. I would lose these last two lines. They don't seem to go with the other three, plus I'm kinda a sucker for form and it might look nice going from a four-line stanza to three to two-line stanza.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.Right?
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.Too many commas in my opinion, and seeing as this is all one sentence the flow seems kind of important here but I felt myself kinda tumbling through these lines
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;This is starting to feel a tad bit abstract
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else Are these extra spaces intentional?
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

I like this poem alot, thanks for sharing!
mike

[REW]

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

Was curious as to why you abandon the rhyme scheme, yet bring it back at the end.  I'd get rid of it altogether, myself, but this is only a personal preference. Reason? I started looking for it and forget the poem for a few seconds. There are little things (e.g. you have a  question to end stanza 5, yet no mark to reference it). Again, stuff like this made me think of something else beside your poem.  

Love S3.  Nice.  

intro into the poem was a bit confusing also.  "kisses" is a bit odd to start.   I've seen poets use the title as a step into the first line of the poem but yours really doesn't do that, at least grammatically.  

Like the internal rhyme (e.g. sun/run & there/care).  Stuff like that moves me along in the poem and shares the musicality of the rhythm w/o being intrusive.  

That's all I got.  Thanks for posting.

Thank you for your remarks 71 Degrees.  I at one point had titled this, "It is Time"  and the first line began He kisses me hello...so in my modifications it sounds like I might have created an awkwardness to be modified.  I was not naturally inspired to write this.  It was something I created in response to a prompt.  I generally write about dark subjects.  And I do not rhyme.  Recently I have been experimenting with rhyme form, with sestinas and sonnets.  This was a bit of a lighter topic, so I wanted some rhyme.  I did not want to overdo it with the rhyming though or force things.  You have brought up some points that I will certainly consider for the revision process.  I suppose I started rhyming again toward the end because I felt it building to the ending and it for me it seemed to alter the pace.  It is good to know that these inconsistencies are distracting. I do like the rhyming that there is.  I do not want to take it all out at this time.  I suppose I am wondering if I changed the pattern in the first stanza, if it would make any difference.  For instance if I had the line about the stars appear right before the one about the moon, would altering the pattern if that would make any difference?

I did not use a question mark after the question because I didn't intend it as a question or even as a rhetorical question. I have the lines, "How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong" as a statement that begins with how but isn't actually asking how.  And I wanted lifting makes you strong to be closely linked and I couldn't have done that with a question mark.

You have given me some things to think about.  Thank you for commenting.

---

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn, hmm... This sounds like a complete sentence, kinda...
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm, I feel like this is missing a syllable or two. Or maybe keep this but swap it with the line below; the transition from  dawn to stars to moon would feel more comfortable and the change of flow from this line could benefit the transition to the next stanza as well
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him. I would lose these last two lines. They don't seem to go with the other three, plus I'm kinda a sucker for form and it might look nice going from a four-line stanza to three to two-line stanza.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.Right?
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.Too many commas in my opinion, and seeing as this is all one sentence the flow seems kind of important here but I felt myself kinda tumbling through these lines
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;This is starting to feel a tad bit abstract
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else Are these extra spaces intentional?
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

I like this poem alot, thanks for sharing!
mike

Hi weeded,

Thank you for your remarks.  You actually answered one of my questions in the first stanza without knowing I had asked it (about reordering the lines).  I am going to consider your criticisms and suggestions for a revision.  As for the extra spaces...I don't know if something weird happened during the copy and paste.  I used two spaces after the period, which is correct in America.  Is that not acceptable in a poem though?  I do not know.  I actually never use a period in the middle of a line when writing poems.  I was trying something new for me.  Maybe the spaces seem extra wide because of the font???

Anyway thank you. 

[aschueler]

I liked your poem and this is the first set of thoughts that fell out as I was reading it.   I hope to see more of it



....oh and the spacing is interesting, apparently it dates us, ironically. Before computers, we learned to type on typewriters; you use 2 spaces per period then. Now you use one space. Time.

I have a really hard time with this as my fingers do their own spacing.

http://www.grammarbook.com/punctuation/spacing.asp

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.  I assume you mean cat 4 hurricanes.  this feels forced.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.   I like these lines but not linking buckets to time well for me
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.  Nothing wrong with aging, but that's my opinion.  
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

[REW]

I liked your poem and this is the first set of thoughts that fell out as I was reading it.   I hope to see more of it



....oh and the spacing is interesting, apparently it dates us, ironically.  Before computers, we learned to type on typewriters;  you use 2 spaces per period then.  Now you use one space.  Time.

I have a really hard time with this as my fingers do their own spacing.

http://www.grammarbook.com/punctuation/spacing.asp

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.  I assume you mean cat 4 hurricanes.  this feels forced.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.   I like these lines but not linking buckets to time well for me
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.  Nothing wrong with aging, but that's my opinion.  
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

Aschuler,

Well I'll be!  I didn't learn to type using a typewriter.  In high school I had to take word processing.  At home we had a typewriter and I used that to type any papers.  Then in college I was always taught to use two spaces even using computers!  Professors even corrected me if I accidentally used only one.  But they were all older...I did a search on the internet and it seems people are still debating it because of how they were taught.  Thank goodness I never made an issue over that and taught someone wrong.

I stand corrected!  And this is the first I stand corrected and I even turned in a graduate level essay last year.  Maybe it isn't as noticeable using Times New Roman font, which is what I always use for formal writing.

Thank you for informing me of this and for your other remarks that I will take into consideration for a revision.  

[REW]

I have done some revisions and am interested to know if I have succeeded in an improved version.

[71degrees]

Revision

He is time

 
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm.
He loves me from the winking moon,
and offers me wisdom from the stars.

But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teasing me to try and catch him. 
 
Might as well attempt 
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as wood shingles 
near the shore--pounded by storms.
 
To learn the art of balancing hourglasses 
and walking without watching the sand drain 
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.

He instructs me to pluck those first white 
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there 
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say, 
“farewell father, father time.”      

Original:

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard. But in the end
knowledge, a friend. How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

Much better segue into the poem. I like your revisions. I think more could be trimmed (e.g. and S1, but S1) to make the cadence of the poem flow more evenly. Everyone "reads" aloud their own poems differently and these extra conjunctions, etc. might not bother your oral style, but taking into consideration the "reader" of the poem, further trimming would benefit (all my own preferences, of course). All in all, I like your revised edition. Thanks for posting it.

[aschueler]

i really enjoy the revision. Sometimes the left over rhymes from the original are a little distracting, but I have little else to poke at. Hourglasses are better than buckets, but each revolution around the sun is a year....however I think you need the "each" for rhythm. Indefinite revolutions around the sun makes more sense but messes it up.

[REW]

Revision

He is time

 
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm.
He loves me from the winking moon,
and offers me wisdom from the stars.

But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last,
teasing me to try and catch him. 
 
Might as well attempt 
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, and frisky,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as wood shingles 
near the shore--pounded by storms.
 
To learn the art of balancing hourglasses 
and walking without watching the sand drain 
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.

He instructs me to pluck those first white 
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there 
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say, 
“farewell father, father time.”      

Original:

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard. But in the end
knowledge, a friend. How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”         

Much better segue into the poem.  I like your revisions.  I think more could be trimmed (e.g. and S1, but S1) to make the cadence of the poem flow more evenly.  Everyone "reads" aloud their own poems differently and these extra conjunctions, etc. might not bother your oral style, but taking into consideration the "reader" of the poem, further trimming would benefit (all my own preferences, of course).  All in all, I like your revised edition.  Thanks for posting it.

Thank you for your reply 71 Degrees and sorry for my sort of late response.  I see some more changes that I can make.  I appreciate the feedback.

---

i really enjoy the revision.  Sometimes the left over rhymes from the original are a little distracting, but I have little else to poke at.  Hourglasses are better than buckets, but each revolution around the sun is a year....however I think you need the "each" for rhythm.  Indefinite revolutions around the sun makes more sense but messes it up.

Thank you aschueler.  I can see I have some more work to do here.  I appreciate your feedback.  

[Erthona]

Casey,

Rev1

"Time" would seem sufficient for the title. The current one sets one in the mind of some kind of romance novel.

I have no problem with the incidental rhyme, although it is true that the first two lines causes one to anticipate a pattern that does not materialize, and to that extent it is disruptive to the reading.

There seems a confusion as to whether the "he" Time is a Father figure:

"who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm."

or a lover:

"...he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last..."

Thus causing a bit of Freudian cognitive dissonance and making the poem feel unstable, as though it does not know what it means to be.

Some section seem almost gratuitous and probably could be done away with without any great loss:

"To learn the art of balancing hourglasses
and walking without watching the sand drain
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight."

None of these lines really say much of anything other than to incorporate words related to time.

Especially egregious "the art of balancing hourglasses"?  

"Only can a little while can one fight" what? And why is one fight "a little while" whatever that is. syntax.


Certainly it does not need the writer's admittance of being uninspired for that to be obvious. For the most part this is disjointed and mechanical, just as one would expect from something that is being forced. I congratulate the writer that it is not more so and commend her awareness on the difference between the two types of writing.

Regardless, a certain amount of skill shows through and for some this would rank as a masterpiece, instead of just being rank.

I excitedly look forward to your more inspired poetry.

Best,

dale

[REW]

Casey,

Rev1

"Time" would seem sufficient for the title. The current one sets one in the mind of some kind of romance novel.

I have no problem with the incidental rhyme, although it is true that the first two lines causes one to anticipate a pattern that does not materialize, and to that extent it is disruptive to the reading.

There seems a confusion as to whether the "he" Time is a Father figure:

"who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm."

or a lover:

"...he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last..."

Thus causing a bit of Freudian cognitive dissonance and making the poem feel unstable, as though it does not know what it means to be.

Some section seem almost gratuitous and probably could be done away with without any great loss:

"To learn the art of balancing hourglasses
and walking without watching the sand drain
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight."

None of these lines really say much of anything other than to incorporate words related to time.

Especially egregious "the art of balancing hourglasses"?  

"Only can a little while can one fight" what? And why is one fight "a little while" whatever that is. syntax.


Certainly it does not need the writer's admittance of being uninspired for that to be obvious. For the most part this is disjointed and mechanical, just as one would expect from something that is being forced. I congratulate the writer that it is not more so and commend her awareness on the difference between the two types of writing.

Regardless, a certain amount of skill shows through and for some this would rank as a masterpiece, instead of just being rank.

I excitedly look forward to your more inspired poetry.

Best,

dale

Hello Dale,

My apologies for a late response.  I have had a really busy week.  Thank you for your feedback and the points you brought up.

As for the bad romance and Freud, well since time doesn't literally have a physical body and sex organs I wasn't looking at it like that despite the way it might have come off.  Kissing hello with the dawn indicates a new day...the night...Indeed it is a mix of father figure with those undertones I suppose, but I wasn't feeling that with the personification.

But anyway, indeed I can see your points and areas where there are issues.  

Thanks