Hedged In

[Sparkydashforth]

Edit 1.


They are under the hedge: the silver
whiskered, threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks -
the feeble squeezed
into narrow parts of the day.

A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment.
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
A widow mislays her eyeglasses in a lost year
as she ferrets yet deeper
into thickets of uncertainty.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples.
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows.

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches.

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight.

We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us.

[Alic Elliot]

They are under the hedge,
the silver whiskered – threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.

A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back 'myopic' is a nice word.
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment.
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
She ferrets deeper
into thickets of uncertainty. Is this some sort of comparison to the chipmunks? Also, "Thickets of uncertainty" is a bit prose-ish.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples. 
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows. I'm officially lost. What's going on here?

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches. Children? Are they orphans? 

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight. 

We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us. 

This looks like it's supposed to be nice, but is really, really confusing. If you could explain more and describe less, that would be great. It seems that your strong suit is imagery. Move out of your comfort zone. Not every poem needs to be a mental masterpiece worthy of the Louvre. Work on transitions from one idea to another, making connections.

Best, Alic

[Sparkydashforth]

Thanks Alic....good advice

The poems intent is to bring together the elderly occupants of a suburban close,
and the critters that share their backyards. It attempts to smudge the lines
between old hedgerow animals and the elderly humans that share the same
location.  That was my goal and interest in producing the work.

Seems I could do better in the clarity department.

Cheers!

They are under the hedge,
the silver whiskered – threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.

A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back 'myopic' is a nice word.
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment.
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
She ferrets deeper
into thickets of uncertainty. Is this some sort of comparison to the chipmunks? Also, "Thickets of uncertainty" is a bit prose-ish.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples. 
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows. I'm officially lost. What's going on here?

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches. Children? Are they orphans? 

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight. 

We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us. 

This looks like it's supposed to be nice, but is really, really confusing. If you could explain more and describe less, that would be great. It seems that your strong suit is imagery. Move out of your comfort zone. Not every poem needs to be a mental masterpiece worthy of the Louvre. Work on transitions from one idea to another, making connections.

Best, Alic

[Mark Cecil]

They are under the hedge,
the silver whiskered – threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.

A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment.  Forage does well to parallel the animals to the elderly person
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
She ferrets deeper
into thickets of uncertainty.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples.
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows.  

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.  Change the plural to singular:  "she is"
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches.

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight.

We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us. Good ending

[Sparkydashforth]

They are under the hedge,
the silver whiskered – threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.

A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment.  Forage does well to parallel the animals to the elderly person
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
She ferrets deeper
into thickets of uncertainty.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples.
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows.  

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.  Change the plural to singular:  "she is"
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches.

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight.

We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us. Good ending

Cheers Mark - good FB

[Lizzie]

Hey Sparky. A couple of thoughts for you on this one.

They are under the hedge,
the silver whiskered – threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble
squeezed into narrow parts of the day. -- in order to make the grammar of this sentence work, you have to read squeezed as the primary verb in past tense which clashes with the present tense of the rest of the poem. I'd rewrite:

They are under the hedge: the silver
whiskered, threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks -- (only, make this an em-dash)
the feeble squeezed
into narrow parts of the day.


A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment. -- there is a sudden gender shift. Presumably you're talking about a pair of groundhogs, sort of a husband and wife, but you leave off with he and begin with she. It reads like a mistake.
From a window she blinks at the moon, -- dash or semi-colon?
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
She ferrets deeper -- like ferrets since you're talking about groundhogs
into thickets of uncertainty.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples.
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows.

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches.

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight.

We will all go quietly -- intentional play on the Dylan Thomas poem? I like.
no fuss, just us.

I like the moving back and forth between human scenario and groundhog existence. However, I believe that you are flirting with sentimentality in parts, and wouldn't go any farther in that direction.

Hope this helps,

lizziep

[Sparkydashforth]

Hi Lizziep,

I have cribbed all of your S1 rewrite. Yes, it's much better now!
Thanks.
　
I have also put up the first edit of this, and added a line to S3 to try and clarify where I shift from animal to
elderly female human.

In this poem my aim is to shift from one sentient creature to another
as they co-habitat the same backyard, and suburban environment.
That kind of meld has always appealed to me, not to anthropomorphize
critters, and not to devalue the human experience, but to illustrate the shared
lives as they live alongside each other.
　
Thanks again for this.

Hey Sparky. A couple of thoughts for you on this one.

They are under the hedge,
the silver whiskered – threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble
squeezed into narrow parts of the day. -- in order to make the grammar of this sentence work, you have to read squeezed as the primary verb in past tense which clashes with the present tense of the rest of the poem. I'd rewrite:

They are under the hedge: the silver
whiskered, threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks -- (only, make this an em-dash)
the feeble squeezed
into narrow parts of the day.


A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.

She forages in her apartment. -- there is a sudden gender shift. Presumably you're talking about a pair of groundhogs, sort of a husband and wife, but you leave off with he and begin with she. It reads like a mistake.
From a window she blinks at the moon, -- dash or semi-colon?
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
She ferrets deeper -- like ferrets since you're talking about groundhogs
into thickets of uncertainty.

The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples.
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows.

We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches.

Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight.

We will all go quietly -- intentional play on the Dylan Thomas poem? I like.
no fuss, just us.

I like the moving back and forth between human scenario and groundhog existence. However, I believe that you are flirting with sentimentality in parts, and wouldn't go any farther in that direction.

Hope this helps,

lizziep