On waking hour, like the laughter of Hades ringing in the ears of Orpheus....
In my bed, I wonder
about the passage of the stars -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butterflies
in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Cumean Sibyl
standing by the door, her silver hair
straddled over her eyes -- what did she say?
All developed love consists
of conversations?
Outside, the wind blows
and books of leaves
flutter through the light.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried, fresh tea,
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the eggs lying on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
I reply: But I was high! I was high!
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments?
No, you were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like
on that card you so enjoy
after vespers?
But we are children, you and I,
and there is no predicting. ....gates of horn, gates of ivory,
they mean nothing.
And so the matins. I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who replies with his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- and the light stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows
and the sprinklers
come alive.
MORNING MOOD
On waking hour, like the laughter of Hades ringing in the ears of Orpheus....
In my bed, I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the passage of the stars -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Cumean Sibyl
standing by the door, her silver hair
straddled over her eyes -- what did she say?
All developed love consists
of conversations?
Outside, the wind blows,
and books of leaves
flutter through the light.
From the kettle, the water
whistles a morning tune.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried, fresh tea,
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the eggs on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
I reply: But I was high! I was high!
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments?
No, you were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like
on that card you so enjoy
after vespers?
But we are children, you and I,
and there is no predicting. ....gates of horn, gates of ivory,
they mean nothing.
And so, the matins. I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- and the light stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
and the sprinklers
come alive.
I'm a little late, but happy new year! Now, I've been working on this since November -- made the main bits 'til right before Christmas, then returned last week to stitch everything up as right as I can make it. At this point, I have no idea what to really make of this, so here goes.
MORNING MOOD
Still in bed. I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the distant sun setting
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair
shining like the moon -- soon,
she says, you will run out of time,
soon you will run out of rhymes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the fallen leaves
flutter in the daylight.
Into the sky. The water
whistles a happy tune, then drowns
the autumn pot. Here's the tea. No sugar,
please, I say to myself,
only cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it. And then I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room,
with the cool sides being
cold bacon, butter, and last night's old
loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the twin dooms lying
on my plate, of the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And the music gives way to voices:
all developed love consists
of conversations, between
man and woman, between
son and father, between
slave and master -- never so between
object and reflection -- and the ancient
myths of fire and water
never mattered. They say
there is only the void,
then a cold cold voice.
The morning shower. And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
But I was high! I was high!
on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments? And you reply:
You were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like on that card
you so enjoy after vespers? But we are
children, you and I,
and like the tender ring of light
fluttering round and round the silver shower
head, all we could do is flow and fly
and fight -- not talk, just flow and fight.
And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus,
the inferno comes.
Gates of horn, gates of ivory,
still it comes.
The morning prayer. The waters of the tap
are cold. They pool
over the dishes, cool
all the still-warm iron casts
of the morning meal, and the old
faces painted on the rings of the plates
lose their silver
gifts of luster,
their ash, their oil, their saliva,
the love, the loss, the regret.
Before my dream of you, I remember
poetry in motion: the father's dance, the mother's pain,
the children's flight, the stars' embrace,
and then the light, the light, the brightening dying
light -- and then I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- the sun stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the sprinklers
come alive.
Still in bed. I wonder (Why the period after bed? Makes me pause and wonder why it's there)
if my love for you
is still as true cliche
as the distant sun setting (setting should be on the next line, not that it matters this whole sun/moon dichotomy is both clumsy and obvious)
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter (these last three lines are good)
flies in summer. And then I see (Use of enjambment does not benefit the poem, put it with the rest of the sentence. Don't just stick it here so the lines come out even)
last night's dream, the dying embers (dying embers-cliche)
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair (this image just doesn't work, there are so many problems with it, I'll address it later)
shining like the moon -- soon, (soon? Did you have to take a number?)
she says, you will run out of time,
soon (again?) you will run out of rhymes. (first rhyme and it's forced, this is based on nothing, no build up, no context, nada!)
Outside, the wind blows, (comma coma)
the fallen leaves
flutter in the daylight. (so?)
Into the sky. The water
whistles a happy tune, then drowns
the autumn pot. Here's the tea. No sugar,
please, I say to myself,
only cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it. And then I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant. (You like her to not be sweet but white?)
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried on the stoveacross the room, (is the stove or the eggs across the room and why does it matter? I guess the eggs could have been fried across the room on the concrete?)
with the cool sides being (with what "cool sides" do you mean, "with the sides being cold bacon, butter..."?)
cold bacon, butter, and last night's old
loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream, (Question? How does one see leaves when the tea is saturated in cream?)
of the twin dooms lying (wait, what? twin dooms? what twin dooms?)
on my plate, of the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And the music gives way to voices:
all developed love consists
of conversations, between
man and woman, between
son and father, between
slave and master -- never so between
object and reflection -- and the ancient
myths of fire and water
never mattered. They say
there is only the void, (so now we dip our toes into philosophy?)
then a cold cold voice.
The morning shower. And here you say (Ah, here is where the poem starts)
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
But I was high! I was high!
on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments? (awkward) And you reply:
You were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like on that card
you so enjoy after vespers? But we are (white space sucks when used incorrectly as it usually is)
children, you and I,
and like the tender ring of light
fluttering round and round the silver shower (bad enjambment)
head, all we could do is flow and fly (oops, falling off the horses, back to la-la land)
and fight -- not talk, just flow and fight.
And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus, the inferno comes. Gates of horn, gates of ivory, still it comes.
The morning prayer. The waters of the tap
are cold. They pool
over the dishes, cool
all the still-warm iron casts
of the morning meal, and the old
faces painted on the rings of the plates
lose their silver
gifts of luster,
their ash, their oil, their saliva,
the love, the loss, the regret.
Before my dream of you, I remember poetry in motion(cliche, even have a game named after it): the father's dance, the mother's pain,
the children's flight, the stars' embrace,
(The this, the that, the this, the that.... ad nauseam)
and then the light, the light, the brightening dying
light -- and then I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- the sun stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the sprinklers
come alive.
" the Sibyl standing by the door, her mess of hair shining like the moon"
Mess means curls at best. I f the hair were silver, which one usually doesn't think of on a Sibyl as they were usually young girls, being a mess would definitely cause the hair not to glow unless it is back-lit by a spotlight like Barbara Streisand in "A Start is Born". I don't this is the case. So despite what you might imagine (and this is easy to do, I do it all the time) it does not mesh with reality and causes a disruption in the reading.
In general. About a third of this is very good, primarily from
" And here you say you were waiting in the park for me"
to
"by three swords like on that card you so enjoy after vespers?"
The rest seems to be surrounded by what I call "Windsong" poetry. Just to give an example.
"Still in bed. I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true.
Cut and print. Nothing that follows helps one bit, it is just flowery words that actually subtract from the original honest question.
Here is the "Windsong" part:
"as the distant sun setting
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne --"
__________________________________________________________
There is the ending that is pretty good:
"And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus..."
I think the implication that she is gone and that the speaker did something he shouldn't is fairly obvious from these lines, without all the other verbal flagellation. It makes for the perfect allusion and at the same time says that the speakers lost love is the equal of Orpheus' lost love.
I'm sure you have worked very long on this and are very attached to all this description, like the "Autumn Pot", by which I assume you mean a tea pot with a fall motif. Yet all of this in depth description does nothing so much than obfuscate the point at hand, which is the lost love. Some of it could work were it somehow integrated with the main thesis of the poem, but unfortunately, it is not, a large portion of the rest, well...
Best,
dale
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
Massive thanks -- I could feel that this was a great mess of shadows and light, I just couldn't tell which was which. I still remember how some bits connect together, however, especially when referring to the older drafts, so I've tried cutting a good deal from the poem, and somewhat clarifying, with bits of additions and rearrangements, how they actually work. The second draft is upstairs.
A few more specific responses:
Older drafts have the Orphean proverb, which is also my favorite of this whole bloody affair, as a sort of prologue. I've played with it a bit, so now it's chopped up, one piece up there, one piece stuck here.
I've kept the enjambment, precisely to make the lines more even. It just sounds better to me, but I still get the sense of it all.
I know "dying embers" is cliche, bu at this point, I care not. The "love for you is still as true", which I kept, I also know to be cliche, and that, I'm genuinely considering to change.
As per the new draft, I've clarified that the sibyl was the Cumean Sibyl, who did start out as a young girl, but was given the gift of immortality (ahem, without eternal youth) by her lover the art-god. Thus, the silver hair, which is kept, and the fluttering leaves, now books of leaves.
I'll deal with the commas when I don't have to deal with content as much.
That awkward bit with the living tree, I'm still thinking about -- I knew it was awkward from the start, but I just can't think of a good way to say it right, like with "the love for you" bit.
Thanks for the feedback. I've posted another edit -- much less, er, revolutionary than the last time, with the "love for you" bit plainly omitted, and a few other bits (including the enjambment, which has started to bother me) cleaned up.
I enjoyed the start, but alas, you flattered to deceive. You begin with a Sibyl, then forget all about her, then suddenly it's Vespers and Matins and an attempt to make sublime the ridiculous.
Too many notes.
On waking hour, like the laughter of Hades ringing in the ears of Orpheus....
In my bed, I wonder
about the passage of the stars -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butterflies
in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Cumean Sibyl
standing by the door, her silver hair ...until here, it's pretty fantastic
straddled over her eyes -- what did she say? .....I'd lose the previous 'her'. Isn't hair 'straddling over eyes' the norm? It's like saying 'hands attached to the sides of the body' or 'eyes / two of them, in the head'.
All developed love consists
of conversations?
Outside, the wind blows
and books of leaves ... nice.
flutter through the light.
Today's breakfast consists ... sudden, unexplained time shift. Not nice.
of two eggs fried, fresh tea, ... do you need the 'fresh'? unless it was made the previous night, tea would normally be 'fresh'.
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes ....'of leaves in my teacup'
the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream, ...cream in tea doesn't remain 'plain white'. Besides, you're already seeing stars, so how are you back to seeing only 'plain white'? make up your mind.
of the eggs lying on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates. ...nice. do you mean the silver gates of the Christian heaven, or of some oracle? did they have silver gates?
And here you say ...from this point on the poem breaks down in a flood of incomprehensibility.
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
I reply: But I was high! I was high!
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments?
No, you were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like
on that card you so enjoy
after vespers?
But we are children, you and I,
and there is no predicting. ....gates of horn, gates of ivory,
they mean nothing.
And so the matins. I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who replies with his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- and the light stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows
and the sprinklers
come alive.
MORNING MOOD
On waking hour, like the laughter of Hades ringing in the ears of Orpheus....
In my bed, I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the passage of the stars -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Cumean Sibyl
standing by the door, her silver hair
straddled over her eyes -- what did she say?
All developed love consists
of conversations?
Outside, the wind blows,
and books of leaves
flutter through the light.
From the kettle, the water
whistles a morning tune.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried, fresh tea,
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the eggs on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
I reply: But I was high! I was high!
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments?
No, you were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like
on that card you so enjoy
after vespers?
But we are children, you and I,
and there is no predicting. ....gates of horn, gates of ivory,
they mean nothing.
And so, the matins. I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- and the light stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
and the sprinklers
come alive.
I'm a little late, but happy new year! Now, I've been working on this since November -- made the main bits 'til right before Christmas, then returned last week to stitch everything up as right as I can make it. At this point, I have no idea what to really make of this, so here goes.
MORNING MOOD
Still in bed. I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the distant sun setting
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair
shining like the moon -- soon,
she says, you will run out of time,
soon you will run out of rhymes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the fallen leaves
flutter in the daylight.
Into the sky. The water
whistles a happy tune, then drowns
the autumn pot. Here's the tea. No sugar,
please, I say to myself,
only cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it. And then I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room,
with the cool sides being
cold bacon, butter, and last night's old
loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the twin dooms lying
on my plate, of the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And the music gives way to voices:
all developed love consists
of conversations, between
man and woman, between
son and father, between
slave and master -- never so between
object and reflection -- and the ancient
myths of fire and water
never mattered. They say
there is only the void,
then a cold cold voice.
The morning shower. And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
But I was high! I was high!
on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments? And you reply:
You were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like on that card
you so enjoy after vespers? But we are
children, you and I,
and like the tender ring of light
fluttering round and round the silver shower
head, all we could do is flow and fly
and fight -- not talk, just flow and fight.
And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus,
the inferno comes.
Gates of horn, gates of ivory,
still it comes.
The morning prayer. The waters of the tap
are cold. They pool
over the dishes, cool
all the still-warm iron casts
of the morning meal, and the old
faces painted on the rings of the plates
lose their silver
gifts of luster,
their ash, their oil, their saliva,
the love, the loss, the regret.
Before my dream of you, I remember
poetry in motion: the father's dance, the mother's pain,
the children's flight, the stars' embrace,
and then the light, the light, the brightening dying
light -- and then I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- the sun stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the sprinklers
come alive.
I dig what you've done here. I think the best advice I can give is to take an axe to it. Less is more - all that jazz.
Here are some lines that I think you can scrap:
"All developed love consists
of conversations?"
This is unclear and doesn't really add much. Another:
"Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried, fresh tea,
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember"
I would just go with "today's breakfast - I remember", we don't need to know what you ate. More:
"the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the eggs lying on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates"
I would end here with the passage of stars are move on. I should note that "silver gates" is a nice touch, but I don't it it's worth the three lines leading up to it.
Honesty dude I think you could hack the 6th stanza (I reply, etc.) entirely.
To me, I think your best approach is to clear out the clutter so what's great in this poem can shine through. This might be a bit of a radical critique, so take me with a grain of salt. All the best!
Not sure how to progress with this piece -- I feel there's still some progress left, but I also feel kinda stumped. Maybe in a year.
Funny thing is this poem runs like three separate poems tied to a singular narrative and theme: first part is all Sibyl and myths and poop, second part (And here you say...) is all the speaker actually relating what sort of happened and being all crazy emotional and poop, and the third part is a [possibly aborted] reconciliation of the two. The third part and bits of the first part probably failed if you, Matt and Achebe, think huge chunks of the second part can be disposed of, but I refuse to believe (and perhaps am a bit emboldened by dale's note, sure) that it is bad, or at the very least incomprehensible when related to everything else. Now, specifics:
Achebe: "straddled over her eyes" -- thanks. I'm still thinking of the right word -- something about her silver her being all bangs-blocking-her-vision or whatever, as a slight play to the fact that she's the Sibyl. Suggestions?
I don't think the sudden time shift is not nice, actually. This isn't the kind of poem that needs one constant set, or one hyper-clear narrative, but still, everything happens in the scene of the title anyway.
"fresh" -- well, the next line does speak of "last night's loaf of bread".
"of leaves in my teacup" just doesn't have the same punch as "of the tea leaves in my cup becomes"
Stars aren't necessarily seen -- but I agree, the images there are a mess.
"silver gates" -- heaven is pearly gates, mate. That's a slight, slight allusion to the later "gates of horn, gates of ivory", but, more importantly, that's an admittedly bad way of evoking a kettle's spout.
Mattp: "all developed love consists" -- The whole point is partly on that line. Speaker had a failure to communicate, speaker lost his love -- that's why the second part's all weird and discoursey and stuff.
"today's breakfast consists" -- meant to play with "all developed love consists", so the specific wording here I won't change, if I don't resort to mangling the breakfast stanza -- I think the idea of the tea leaves is important, and perhaps the steam from silver gates, but you're right, the breakfast itself might be wholly unnecessary. Tea in bed, perhaps.
And your crit of cutting ain't radical to me. Me going overboard with shit is my prime weakness. Look at this poem's first draft, for instance.
But hey, really valued stuff, Achebe, Matt! Makes me think...
To me, I couldn't help but feel this very pretentious tone from the whole thing. And it also had this weird hodge podge of a pseudo-scholarly voice, complete with actual overt references to Greek gods, and then the voice of an alt rock song.
Specifically this passage:
And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
___
Feels very teen angsty, boy bandish? Which isn't a bad thing, if it wasn't strewn between super lofty voices, like:
Before my dream of you, I remember
poetry in motion: the father's dance, the mother's pain,
the children's flight, the stars' embrace,
and then the light, the light, the brightening dying
light -- and then I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- the sun stings my eyes.
All in all I can't help but feel a tremendous unease and tension when reading this. It feels forced, it feels contrived, and it feels like it has a central idea that is just BEGGING to be free (free, was in it wants to stop being held back by over-written, saccharine, and contrived allusions/devices) and over-written.
This is just a thought, from me, one person. I don't mean to be rude - you are clearly talented and this poem has a lot of potential.
Maybe I'm not supposed to offer this kind of advice? I'm not sure - but mainly I'm doing it because I trust you to nail the technical things that could be done better - so I thought I'd offer a different type of advice or a different kind of perspective.
