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There's a wedding across from the cemetery. A bridesmaid in bare-shouldered navy and a rum-blonde bun poses with her smoke's ghostly cirrus. A girl about six escapes the formality, runs to the playground in white shoes, her black hair pulled back, loosening in front. Her mom smokes at the latticed gate – she says it's time to go when her cigarette's done. The girl cries and looks back at my kids, swinging on their stomachs, hands in the dirt. The grass is unnaturally green in this town. More white lace tights and custard cardigans steal away to play. My son swings beside one, hamming up the peril as he rockets side to side. They twist the chains up to the top, first squeal then shriek. Her dad runs down and holds her head as if with Atlas' hands, his smoldering cigar an inch from her hair.
I could use some help coming up with a better title for this one, if anyone has any suggestions.
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Breaking this up by sentence for crit...
An interesting narrative, but moving significantly beyond this narrative is a slight chore. I don't mind that fact, but I don't feel it is interesting enough on its own to warrant the effort that must be put in. It reads to me as a journal entry of a mostly mundane scene.
(07-12-2016, 12:22 PM)lizziep Wrote: There's a wedding across from the cemetery. (the cemetery is dropped in right here and mostly ignored for the rest of this piece. why? it is also stylistically different from the rest of this piece.)
A bridesmaid in bare-shouldered navy and a rum-blonde bun poses with her smoke's ghostly cirrus. (okay, we have smoke and ghosts showing up here, so the presence of death is now more than obvious.)
A girl about six escapes the formality, runs to the playground in white shoes, her black hair pulled back, loosening in front. (I'm not sure what seam the contrast is meant to highlight.)
Her mom smokes at the latticed gate – she says it's time to go when her cigarette's done.
The girl cries and looks back at my kids, swinging on their stomachs, hands in the dirt.
The grass is unnaturally green in this town. (I'm not sure if the ambiguity is giving me trouble, or the position in the piece, or both. It's a sentence I would probably rephrase severely or otherwise remove.)
More white lace tights and custard cardigans steal away to play. (this is a really weird image for me. From lace tights to the oddly modified cardigans, and finally the act of stealing, this line is resolvable, but it leaves an awkward taste.)
My son swings beside one, hamming up the peril as he rockets side to side. (mistakenly read this as hammering the first three times. woops.)
They twist the chains up to the top, first squeal then shriek.
Her dad runs down and holds her head as if with Atlas' hands, his smoldering cigar an inch from her hair. (from careless, to strenuous, and back to careless. not bad. but the entire piece seems to suffer from a lack of rhythm.)
I could use some help coming up with a better title for this one, if anyone has any suggestions. (totally unnecessary line. remove it completely. joking though! the "portside" is rather interesting, but I don't think I can make a better title.)
The intent is a little lost on me. It's a brief scene with a lot going on, but there is no rhythm to carry me from one sentence to the next. It makes the reading a bit unpleasant. I mentioned that it feels like a journal entry, which makes me feel like I'm just reading a day in someone's history, and I don't particularly enjoy reading a lot of history.
Hopefully a bit useful.
If you're the smartest person in the room, you're in the wrong room.
"Or, if a poet writes a poem, then immediately commits suicide (as any decent poet should)..." -- Erthona
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Hey UselessBlueprint, thanks for spending time with it. I was trying out something a little different. I've seen people do little snapshots or scene studies, and I thought it looked interesting to try. I'm still trying to find my "style" as a writer. Looks like it'll be a learning experience. 
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I've been "writing" in one form or another for a few years now, and I still haven't settled in on something like a style. I still try new things pretty often. I don't really think a style is something that is found, but rather, developed. There are styles and forms that I consciously like or dislike, but to develop a visible personal style as a writer seems to require that you create a fairly large corpus. Keep writing, keep reading, keep learning. I noticed you're only a few months into your writing journey, so my best advice for this moment is write like it's an addiction. Write everything, even if it's crap. Just keep doing it.
If you're the smartest person in the room, you're in the wrong room.
"Or, if a poet writes a poem, then immediately commits suicide (as any decent poet should)..." -- Erthona
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Write like it's an addiction...I love that!
Yeah, I had never done any creative writing before March of this year. Decided one day that I needed a creative outlet or I'd die of boredom.
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(07-12-2016, 12:22 PM)lizziep Wrote: There's a wedding across from the cemetery. A bridesmaid in bare-shouldered navy and a rum-blonde bun poses with her smoke's ghostly cirrus. A girl about six escapes the formality, runs to the playground in white shoes, her black hair pulled back, loosening in front. Her mom smokes at the latticed gate – she says it's time to go when her cigarette's done. The girl cries and looks back at my kids, swinging on their stomachs, hands in the dirt. The grass is unnaturally green in this town. More white lace tights and custard cardigans steal away to play. My son swings beside one, hamming up the peril as he rockets side to side. They twist the chains up to the top, first squeal then shriek. Her dad runs down and holds her head as if with Atlas' hands, his smoldering cigar an inch from her hair.
I could use some help coming up with a better title for this one, if anyone has any suggestions.
hello,
it pains me to say it, but i don't think this is a poem. it has its moments, but it reads like sloppy prose rather than sprawling poetry. the scene itself is too mundane for the mundane description it gives. it puts a scene in front of me that i would look away from in reality; and doesn't do anything, in itself, to make me want to contemplate that scene any further. it lacks the added layer. it is a joycean epiphany without the epiphany.
as for style, this does nothing for that. it is generic and boring. also, isn't it 'smouldering'? or is that like 'mom', ie. something us british have to just grow up and deal with 
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(07-13-2016, 02:35 AM)shemthepenman Wrote: hello,
it pains me to say it, but i don't think this is a poem. it has its moments, but it reads like sloppy prose rather than sprawling poetry. the scene itself is too mundane for the mundane description it gives. it puts a scene in front of me that i would look away from in reality; and doesn't do anything, in itself, to make me want to contemplate that scene any further. it lacks the added layer. it is a joycean epiphany without the epiphany.
as for style, this does nothing for that. it is generic and boring. also, isn't it 'smouldering'? or is that like 'mom', ie. something us british have to just grow up and deal with
Hey, Shem. Thanks for the honesty.
Trying to find some beauty in my boring life is proving a difficult task.
Time to break out my stilettos.....
I don't really care how it's spelled, in the end. I just can't stand the angry, squiggly line underneath my words, so I just give in to convention.
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There's a wedding across from the cemetery. A girl about six runs to the playground in white shoes, her black hair pulled back, loosening in front. She looks at my son, who hams up the peril as he rockets side to side, twisting the chains up to the top. First squeal then shriek. Her mom stands by the latticed gate – it'll be time to go when her cigarette's done. A bridesmaid in bare-shouldered navy and a rum-blonde bun poses with her smoke's ghostly cirrus beside her. Or so my son says. I for one, can see none of them.
Trying to find some excitement in my boring life was proving a difficult task.
~ I think I just quoted myself - Achebe
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(07-17-2016, 09:04 PM)Achebe Wrote: There's a wedding across from the cemetery. A girl about six runs to the playground in white shoes, her black hair pulled back, loosening in front. She looks at my son, who hams up the peril as he rockets side to side, twisting the chains up to the top. First squeal then shriek. Her mom stands by the latticed gate – it'll be time to go when her cigarette's done. A bridesmaid in bare-shouldered navy and a rum-blonde bun poses with her smoke's ghostly cirrus beside her. Or so my son says. I for one, can see none of them.
Trying to find some excitement in my boring life was proving a difficult task.
 Thank you. Much improved. There goes my revision 
Just kidding. I want the cigar back since it was my favorite part.
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I want the cigar back
Sorry, Monica. It stays with the court as Exhibit A
~ I think I just quoted myself - Achebe
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(07-18-2016, 07:43 AM)Achebe Wrote: I want the cigar back
Sorry, Monica. It stays with the court as Exhibit A
 I did not realize how dirty that sounded.
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