Felt, unfocused but intense
pained hyposense from old stitched scars
of whittling knives,
haloed ghosts of sprains and bruises
carelessly earned:
each arthritic ache, rheumatic rue,
silver badge of aging on some godling’s plan
hatched to make heaven worth the dying for.
Heard imperfectly but all too well
enough of fragments, bites
of sound and virulence
sharp as tooth and catty claws:
words slur but perfect pitch
of arrogance, disdain, war spite
streams bright as regimental standards
raised in smoke and fight.
Seen well but badly
some sights should be masked:
vile bodies and those which attract,
not vile which, seen, distract
from duty not to see.
Seen blurred but well,
motion in green astigmatic curls,
prey, predator to chase or dodge
resolve, projected on a lumpy screen:
sense from smeared evidence.
Sense evanesces, boiled away,
dew fled in sunlight,
fallen dust becalmed
without gross things which feel
and others felt:
where is the sense in it
without an “it?”
Focused images, bright sounds replayed
merely mimic recognition,
sister of sense which braids
touch, hearing, sight with context -
understanding, often false,
remains the only truth within our power.
Edit 1;
Seen well but badly
some sights should be masked,
vile bodies and those which attract,
not vile which, seen, distract
from duty not to see.
Seen blurred but well,
motion in green astigmatic curls,
prey, predator to chase or dodge
resolves, projected on a lumpy screen:
sense from smeared evidence.
Feel unfocused but intense
pained hyposense from old stitched scars
of whittling knives,
haloed ghosts of sprains and bruises
carelessly earned, but like
each arthritic ache, rheumatic rue,
silver badge of aging on some godling’s plan
hatched to make heaven worth the dying for.
Hear imperfectly but all too well
enough of fragments, bites
of sound and virulence
sharp as tooth and catty claws.
Words slur but perfect pitch
of arrogance, disdain, war spite
streams bright as regimental standards
in the smoke and fight.
There’s a sense in which
sense evanesces, boils away,
dew fled in sunlight,
fallen dust becalmed
without the gross thing which feels
and the other felt:
where is the sense in it
without an “it?”
Focused images, sounds faithfully replayed
merely facilitate clear recognition,
sister of sense which braids
touch, hearing, sight with context -
understanding, often false,
remains the only truth within our power.
Original version;
I see quite well but badly:
sights that should be masked,
vile bodies, and those which attract,
not vile, which seen, distract
from duty not to see.
I see not well but clearly:
motion in green astigmatic blur,
a bird, a predator, to chase or dodge
resolving on a lumpy screen,
sense from smeared evidence.
I feel, misleading but intense
the hyposense of old, stitched scars
from whittling knives,
haloed ghosts of sprains and bruises
careless earned, but like
each arthritic ache, rheumatic rue,
my badge of aging on some godling’s plan
hatched to make heaven worth the dying for.
I feel true but nearly vanishing,
remembered touch of care,
reticent fingertips, shrinking
smooth otherness, blushing withheld.
Touch in memory,
memory in touch.
There is a sense in which sense evanesces,
boils away, shrinks into nought,
dew fled in sunlight,
dust fallen to earth in a calm
without the gross thing which feels
and the other felt:
where is the sense in it
without an “it?”
I hear imperfectly but all too well:
enough of fragments, bites
of sound and virulence
sharp as tooth and catty claws.
Words blur, but perfect pitch
of arrogance, disdain, war spite
streams unmistakable as regimental Colors
in the smoke and fight.
What we call focus, optical sharpness
which can be measured and perfected
is but analogous to recognition,
sister of sense, connecting
what is felt, heard, seen with context.
Understanding, though it may be false
remains the only truth within our power.
Click "Spoiler" for previous versions
Not sure if this is just a pointless soup of abstractions, or worth the work of improving.
"Not sure if this is just a pointless soup of abstractions, or worth the work of improving."
I want to comment because you helped me with a poem, but I have to admit that the poem does read like a soup of abstractions. Do you know what it is that you are trying to say? The poem is similar to the type of stuff I produce when I'm not feeling inspired but want to write something.
Since you already know that the poem is heavy with abstractions, I won't point that out. Why don't you try writing out in prose what the central message of the poem is, and then try to find a way to say it in poetic language?
I also find it interesting that you've posted this though it needs a lot of refining. I don't post a poem until it is pretty much finished, and then I post it to find out if I missed an obvious problem.
Quote:I also find it interesting that you posted this though it needs a lot of refining. I don't post a poem until it is pretty much finished, and then I post it to find out if I missed an obvious problem.
Each member of the Pen works differently and can use the workshops as they see fit, within the guidelines posted. Every member will not be able to crit every poem. Please keep comments focused on the poem, not the critic. Thanks. ella/mod -- There is too much scolding and censorship on this forum. I was simply making an observation that we seem to work differently.
I see quite well but badly: Slightly awkward. Interesting idea to open with a contradiction sights that should be masked, vile bodies, and those which attract, not vile, which seen, distract from duty not to see. Strong imagery for “can’t look away” I see not well but clearly: motion in green astigmatic blur, a bird, a predator, to chase or dodge resolving on a lumpy screen, sense from smeared evidence. I feel, misleading but intense Losing the power of the contradiction here. Need more direct opposites the hyposense of old, stitched scars from whittling knives, haloed ghosts of sprains and bruises careless earned, but like Correction: carelessly earned. The modifier needs to be an adverb. each arthritic ache, rheumatic rue, my badge of aging on some godling’s plan hatched to make heaven worth the dying for. Strongest stanza so far. Powerful prose reflecting age I feel true but nearly vanishing, Again, the idea isn’t as captivating without a more direct contradiction remembered touch of care, reticent fingertips, shrinking smooth otherness, blushing withheld. Touch in memory, memory in touch. How much is this adding? There is a sense in which sense evanesces, boils away, shrinks into nought, dew fled in sunlight, dust fallen to earth in a calm without the gross thing which feels Great image! and the other felt: where is the sense in it without an “it?” I hear imperfectly but all too well: Better again enough of fragments, bites of sound and virulence sharp as tooth and catty claws. Words blur, but perfect pitch of arrogance, disdain, war spite streams unmistakable as regimental Colors Why do you capitalize? What is it adding? in the smoke and fight. What we call focus, optical sharpness which can be measured and perfected is but analogous to recognition, sister of sense, connecting what is felt, heard, seen with context. Understanding, though it may be false remains the only truth within our power Feels almost like Cartesian skepticism!
What works:
The third stanza is very strong. It strongly captures the feeling of aging and being aged. Well done! Additionally, the parallal structure with different senses and sensations works. In general, your prose and imagery elicits a strong reaction.
What works less well:
The poem needs a slightly stronger focus. The message is clear at the the end but the journey meanders. This may be personal preference but I only enjoy first person in poetry if the voice is unique and strong. My advice would be to try to use third-person or eliminate any sort of narration. The use of the "I" in the poem seems to diminish or hinder the themes of 'sense vs. understanding of our sense' because the narrator feels like a poet. The narrator does not read like a voice.
What to work on:
Method- The structure in each stanza is strong and consistent. What does rearranging the poem so all the stanzas about sense are together do?
Manner- The imagery is strong. Great work!
Matter- Interesting topic for the poem but it is muddled by the voice. Either try a different voice or eliminate the narration. Additionally, try to stay focused on the battle between the two forces (understanding our senses vs. what are senses are actually).
Hi DA - I find the central problem not to be abstractions, but the plodding, prosaic nature of the lines. It's a first draft, I suppose, so there's some way to go.
We all have those times when something must be said that is felt keenly but understood vaguely. TS Eliot resolved it by writing lovely sounding nonsense, but we are grateful to him for that. So for you the first step for this piece might be to rewrite for beauty, then tweak for sense.
Specifically - I feel that dropping the 'I feel /I see' at he start of he strophes improves them.
I get the feeling that dropping the first person altogether will help his poem.
Seen well but badly
some sights should be masked,
vile bodies and those which attract,
not vile which, seen, distract
from duty not to see.
Seen blurred but well,
motion in green astigmatic curls,
prey, predator to chase or dodge
resolves, projected on a lumpy screen:
sense from smeared evidence.
Feel unfocused but intense
pained hyposense from old stitched scars
of whittling knives,
haloed ghosts of sprains and bruises
carelessly earned, but like
each arthritic ache, rheumatic rue,
silver badge of aging on some godling’s plan
hatched to make heaven worth the dying for.
Hear imperfectly but all too well
enough of fragments, bites
of sound and virulence
sharp as tooth and catty claws.
Words slur but perfect pitch
of arrogance, disdain, war spite
streams bright as regimental standards
in the smoke and fight.
There’s a sense in which
sense evanesces, boils away,
dew fled in sunlight,
fallen dust becalmed
without the gross thing which feels
and the other felt:
where is the sense in it
without an “it?”
Focused images, sounds faithfully replayed
merely facilitate clear recognition,
sister of sense which braids
touch, hearing, sight with context -
understanding, often false,
remains the only truth within our power.
Thanks to all critics for their insightful and very helpful advice and suggestions. I didn't actually put the verses in a box and shake them, but there was a lot of highlight-click-hold-move involved.
@Caleb Murdock - I partially used your suggestion about writing as prose, making the rewrite form complete (if convoluted) sentences. Normally I take out a poem and fiddle with it over the course of weeks or months before submitting for crit, but this one had me stumped for months - where to start? So I submitted it, and received a wealth of excellent "cut here" suggestions, yours included. Thanks!
@OTG - Thanks for the excellent critique - very valuable to know what's working as well as what's not. I've recast without first-person (except first-person plural in the last line, can't seem to get away from it there) and eliminated the "touch" stanza as you suggested. Plus a certain amount of cutting in the process, and rearrangement to anyway suggest a theme and conclusion. [Aside: "Colors" was capitalized because it's an object of reverence, like Jupiter or Nemesis. But it did look odd and was, in addition, a bit irreverent there, so it's changed to demote and clarify.]
@Achebe - Thanks also for the idea of eliminating first-person narrator (now imperative in spots). I've tried to beautify a bit in the edit process, too. Still a novice at free verse, just have to climb back on the bicycle and try again...
I have been trying to read this and come up with suggestions. I can understand where you have been working on it for months, it's tough. So please take this as a joke and a gentle suggestion:
Stolen from Lewis Carrol:
At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, 'Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'll soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.
'Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, 'are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria- -
So my point is that it's too dry. I think it needs something like maybe even scandal. Maybe people in it? I mean, there's the word vile that got my eyebrow lifted then it turned clinical. The verb tenses are mild and make me want to sigh when reading them. This is what over boiled water tastes like.
Hope this is helpful, I really want to read it after you have fiddled with it.
(05-24-2016, 05:58 AM)Achebe Wrote: Starting with 'seen', would 'felt' and 'heard' be better?
Certainly worth a try! Might suggest further trimming, too.
@aschueler - Removing first person may have had some drying effect ("the poem without the poet is bare," to paraphrase James Russell Lowell). The trick will be to restore some juice to what is, being analytical, an inherently bloodless enterprise.
Edit 2 incorporates much advice from the much-appreciated critics.
In Sense
Edit 2;
Felt, unfocused but intense
pained hyposense from old stitched scars
of whittling knives,
haloed ghosts of sprains and bruises
carelessly earned:
each arthritic ache, rheumatic rue,
silver badge of aging on some godling’s plan
hatched to make heaven worth the dying for.
Heard imperfectly but all too well
enough of fragments, bites
of sound and virulence
sharp as tooth and catty claws:
words slur but perfect pitch
of arrogance, disdain, war spite
streams bright as regimental standards
raised in smoke and fight.
Seen well but badly
some sights should be masked:
vile bodies and those which attract,
not vile which, seen, distract
from duty not to see.
Seen blurred but well,
motion in green astigmatic curls,
prey, predator to chase or dodge
resolve, projected on a lumpy screen:
sense from smeared evidence.
Sense evanesces, boiled away,
dew fled in sunlight,
fallen dust becalmed
without gross things which feel
and others felt:
where is the sense in it
without an “it?”
Focused images, bright sounds replayed
merely mimic recognition,
sister of sense which braids
touch, hearing, sight with context -
understanding, often false,
remains the only truth within our power.
Non-practicing atheist
