it was forbidden whispers, burning,
branding calligraphy against our skin—
fractured lullabies, (my gods, my love),
bittersweet dahlia crumbs
(as fodder for clipped pigeons)—
that will always mean something,
nothing.
it was sanctuaries—the ones enveloped by dirty sheets,
billowing curtains, housing a homicide of tangled (carved, battered) bodies.
fingers entwined, melting perfectly into evolved gaps
(the grandest of canyons, the blackest of voids)—
as though they were meant to hold each other
for forever and ever;
for a binary infinity.
it was fingertips grazing, tickling (trickling and weeping like hail),
circling and hunting within oxidized sub-saharan plains.
we go up and then we come down,
(a spinning carousel: first there was a seed and then came the apple)
we flew up (breaching the heavens) and then we dived down
(christened with a gold medal from a formaldehyde babel).
it was an expedition of sacred (blasphemous), archaic territories.
hesitance (my gods, my love, please stop us);
knowing—loving—how desecrating we are:
prostitutes of the forlorn, existentially jaded and biblically stoned.
hesitance (strung out on tomorrow);
knowing—enchanted with a lust, a greed, for passion;
two selfish, callous ships following erotic sirens (i love you, i love you,
my gods, do i love you).
it was your secured limb snaked around my carcass,
fastened, tightening, choking like bondage (my gods, i can't breathe)
bequeathing my soul to never falter—
us, stumbling (stuttering), drunk actors.
prescribed the only medical regimen for anxious fools.
it was this; this staged homily, preaching for alleged tomorrows,
the genesis of seven days (a continuous stream of light
in a consuming tunnel of onyx)—
this could be our ubiquitous infinity.
it was cleft lips, cracked and dried by the sands of time,
trespassing—barely there—
skimming with such unceremonious speed.
it was lazy moments of reluctance:
devouring, savoring honeysuckle, bliss-filled moans—
drowning in the swollen nectar of the insatiable.
us: pharaohs, gods of dimensions and creations,
parsimoniously indulging, haughtily hoarding all of life's wine.
it was shared laughter: (effervescent, evanescent);
radiating, echoing within the permeable chambers
of our labyrinth: this was for me and for you;
it is for me; and it is for you.
it was blushing secrets: (no, please, we shouldn't)
shared with (bleak) opalescent willingness.
thrusting desires to the beat of our fibrillating hearts.
us: the fountainhead of evolution,
gilded parents, burying a multitude of children;
tombstones sculpted with the name of "shame."
it was finally unleashed—gates of heated passion ruptured open.
saccharine euphoria oozing as though from a sun-ripened peach
it was perfection, beautiful, and it was fervently revered;
it was stigmatized with the premonition of heart-rendering ischemia;
hog-tied down (my love, we must get back up) and unhinging our demineralized bones
from their homely sockets.
it was love.
it was over.
Original:
it was forbidden whispers burning against our skin—
fractured lullabies, bittersweet nothings,
that will always mean something,
nothing.
it was us being enveloped in dirty sheets,
barely covered tangled bodies.
fingers entwined, melting perfectly into evolved gaps—
as though they were meant to hold each other
for forever and ever
and eternity.
it was fingers grazing and tickling,
circling and trailing up and down,
up and down,
sacred, unknown territories.
hesitance,
knowing of how desecrating,
how forbidden these moments were.
hesitance,
knowing of how much we desired
love and of how much we were willing
to express it.
it was your strong arm wrapped around my torso,
vice-like grip never
faltering, utterly refusing to let go.
we both accepted:
this was it—
this moment,
this
single
day,
could be our
never—
ending—
infinity.
it was lips barely touching,
skimming with such lightening speed;
short moments of reluctance
where we’d savor our honeysuckle, bliss-filled
lips against one another, never wanting to part.
drowning in the swelling nectar of our insatiable throats—
us: gods, of dimensions and creations,
selfishly hoarding all life’s wine.
it was shared laughter and endless words,
radiating throughout the room.
for me and for you,
for me and for you—
for only us two.
the secrets we willingly shared
untouchable desires
finally unleashed.
it was perfection. it was beautiful, sweet,
heartrendering, disastrous.
it was forbidden whispers, burning, I like the intro
branding calligraphy against our skin—is this Michaelangelo signature as well?
fractured lullabies, (my gods, my love),
bittersweet dahlia crumbs does dahlia crumble?
(as fodder for clipped pigeons)—why are the pigeons clipped, pets?
that will always mean something,
nothing.does this mean anything?
it was sanctuaries they were sanctuaries?—the ones enveloped by dirty sheets, why dirty?
billowing curtains, housing a homicide of tangled (carved, battered) bodies. Is this two extra adjectives to describe tangled? Then why include tangled.
fingers entwined, melting perfectly into evolved gaps
(the grandest of canyons, the blackest of voids)—I think youre trying to describe perfection but can't find the words, so include more words, on to infinity
as though they were meant to hold each other
for forever and ever; forever?
for a binary infinity.
it was fingertips grazing, tickling (trickling and weeping like hail), are all the it's relating to the statue, does the title refer to the statue, my whole critique here is based around what I know about a statue, and what I can imagine someone Maybe experiencing in the presence of the statue
circling and hunting within oxidized sub-saharan plains.
we go up and then we come down,
(a spinning carousel: first there was a seed and then came the apple) sometimes the explanations need explaining it could be explained another way
we flew up (breaching the heavens) and then we dived down
(christened with a gold medal from a formaldehyde babel).is a babel a string of words?
it was an expedition of sacred (blasphemous), archaic territories. I like this line
hesitance (my gods, my love, please stop us);
knowing—loving—how desecrating we are:
prostitutes of the forlorn, existentially jaded and biblically stoned.I like this line as well
hesitance (strung out on tomorrow);
knowing—enchanted with a lust, a greed, for passion;
two selfish, callous ships following erotic sirens (i love you, i love you, i feel like you just introduced a new character, cause I have no idea who you're talking to
my gods, do i love you).
it was your secured limb snaked around my carcass,
fastened, tightening, choking like bondage (my gods, i can't breathe)plural gods interesting
bequeathing my soul to never falter—
us, stumbling (stuttering), drunk actors.are we drunk and choking, you?
prescribed the only medical regimen for anxious fools.
it was this; this staged homily, preaching for alleged tomorrows, self referential to the poem?
the genesis of seven days (a continuous stream of light
in a consuming tunnel of onyx)—why onyx?
this could be our ubiquitous infinity.
it was cleft lips I don't like this, iodine deficiency?, cracked and dried by the sands of time,
trespassing—barely there—
skimming with such unceremonious speed.the lips?
it was lazy moments of reluctance:
devouring, savoring honeysuckle, bliss-filled moans—
drowning in the swollen nectar of the insatiable.
us: pharaohs, gods of dimensions and creations,
parsimoniously indulging, haughtily hoarding all of life's wine. Indulging in superfluity
it was shared laughter: (effervescent, evanescent);joy at completing or being in the presence of the statue?
radiating, echoing within the permeable chambers
of our labyrinth: this was for me and for you;
it is for me; and it is for you. Tense changes for what? I have no idea where I am
it was blushing secrets: (no, please, we shouldn't)
shared with (bleak) opalescent willingness.
thrusting desires to the beat of our fibrillating hearts.
us: the fountainhead of evolution,
gilded parents, burying a multitude of children;
tombstones sculpted with the name of "shame."what's shameful?
it was finally unleashed—gates of heated passion ruptured open.
saccharine euphoria oozing as though from a sun-ripened peach
it was perfection, beautiful, and it was fervently revered;
it was stigmatized with the premonition of heart-rendering ischemia; this sounds more like a Teresa of Avila statue
hog-tied down (my love, we must get back up) and unhinging our demineralized bones
from their homely sockets.I feel like your adjectives are all over the place
it was love.
it was over. Honestly I like the original better by a long shot, I think some of my questions still apply, but then again maybe I'm thinking of a statue and you're not, hope it helps.
Original:
it was forbidden whispers burning against our skin—
fractured lullabies, bittersweet nothings,
that will always mean something,
nothing.
it was us being enveloped in dirty sheets,
barely covered tangled bodies.
fingers entwined, melting perfectly into evolved gaps—
as though they were meant to hold each other
for forever and ever
and eternity.
it was fingers grazing and tickling,
circling and trailing up and down,
up and down,
sacred, unknown territories.
hesitance,
knowing of how desecrating,
how forbidden these moments were.
hesitance,
knowing of how much we desired
love and of how much we were willing
to express it.
it was your strong arm wrapped around my torso,
vice-like grip never
faltering, utterly refusing to let go.
we both accepted:
this was it—
this moment,
this
single
day,
could be our
never—
ending—
infinity.
it was lips barely touching,
skimming with such lightening speed;
short moments of reluctance
where we’d savor our honeysuckle, bliss-filled
lips against one another, never wanting to part.
drowning in the swelling nectar of our insatiable throats—
us: gods, of dimensions and creations,
selfishly hoarding all life’s wine.
it was shared laughter and endless words,
radiating throughout the room.
for me and for you,
for me and for you—
for only us two.
the secrets we willingly shared
untouchable desires
finally unleashed.
it was perfection. it was beautiful, sweet,
heartrendering, disastrous.
hello, fanak.
you have some decent lines in the poem, such as:
branding calligraphy against our skin— (lover's tattoos. nice)
(as fodder for clipped pigeons)— (original adjective)
(a spinning carousel: first there was a seed and then came the apple) (the apple being an unwanted pregnancy? sin? nice)
(i love you, i love you, my gods, do i love you).
it was love / it was over.
but against this, you have more than aren't that great:
billowing curtains, housing a homicide of tangled (carved, battered) bodies. (trying to fit too much into a line)
circling and hunting within oxidized sub-saharan plains. (I am intrigued by 'oxidised'. What does it mean?)
a continuous stream of light in a consuming tunnel of onyx— (this one sounds particularly nonsensical to me)
thrusting desires to the beat of our fibrillating hearts. (completely over the top)
(christened with a gold medal from a formaldehyde babel). (I can't get the medical connection, if any. I even googled 'formaldehyde babel' and came across a paper on the detoxification of formaldehyde by acetic acid bacteria, but I don't think you had that in mind)
for forever and ever; (cliched)
I think that overall, you've tried to make every line great, and have ended up making the poem too dense to be interesting. It still is an improvement over the original, but you might have to dial down the excitement.
02-17-2017, 04:23 AM (This post was last modified: 02-17-2017, 04:24 AM by Todd.)
This will probably be an odd critique for this workshop as I tend to do a line by line or something more thorough. You had something interesting going on with the original version. There was a greater sense of focus. When you consider your title it's like you opted in the revision for the block of marble instead of the sculpture. Instead of making definite, focused choices you allowed yourself to go on flourishes and choose all of the above for every test answer. This is a clear less is more situation in my opinion. It's not that you don't come upon some interesting language in the revision, thinking through the idea of a binary infinity is sort of cool. I think though you need to return to a place of more focus and greater control. Maybe strip this larger revision down again and see what demands to be there. I had ideas for your original playing around with your S1 something/nothing moment and carrying that sense of reversal drawing near/drawing apart throughout the rest of the poem. I think though I'll wait to see where you take this in the next version.
I just gave a wonderfully elaborate critique, but somehow my Firefox froze up and now, well I am fizzled, but I will retry. Another lesson on save save save what you have written, but I was mesmerized and caught up in a wonderful whirlpool of words and didn't think to, but what else is new? I'm rather afraid my first critique may have been more useful before, but it was securely stifled by the leashes of uncertain technical gods. I wondered, though, on my first few initial reads of your poem if a pen had been loaned to a beautiful angel, one I'd likely defend...both troubling me and comforting me all at once.
it was forbidden whispers, burning,
branding calligraphy against our skin—
fractured lullabies, (my gods, my love),
bittersweet dahlia crumbs why always the dahlia?
(as fodder for clipped pigeons)— loved this line here, genius
that will always mean something,
nothing.
it was sanctuaries—the ones enveloped by dirty sheets,
billowing curtains, housing a homicide of tangled (carved, battered) bodies.
fingers entwined, melting perfectly into evolved gaps
(the grandest of canyons, the blackest of voids)—
as though they were meant to hold each other
for forever and ever; god given human desire
for a binary infinity. to be boxed and stored away
it was fingertips grazing, tickling (trickling and weeping like hail),
circling and hunting within oxidized sub-saharan plains.
we go up and then we come down,
(a spinning carousel: first there was a seed and then came the apple)
we flew up (breaching the heavens) and then we dived down
(christened with a gold medal from a formaldehyde babel).
it was an expedition of sacred (blasphemous), archaic territories. I find the word "archaic" becoming the new cliche
hesitance (my gods, my love, please stop us);
knowing—loving—how desecrating we are:
prostitutes of the forlorn, existentially jaded and biblically stoned.
hesitance (strung out on tomorrow);
knowing—enchanted with a lust, a greed, for passion;
two selfish, callous ships following erotic sirens (i love you, i love you, Callous is a bit of a misnomer. At the very least, a ship
my gods, do i love you). full of marshmallows on a bitter sea.
it was your secured limb snaked around my carcass, carcass should be more a sprout of strength
fastened, tightening, choking like bondage (my gods, i can't breathe)
bequeathing my soul to never falter—
us, stumbling (stuttering), drunk actors. at first and second read I saw these 3 lines subject
prescribed the only medical regimen for anxious fools. matter for an interesting separate poem on its own,
not sure it adds, maybe just takes away
it was this; this staged homily, preaching for alleged tomorrows,
the genesis of seven days (a continuous stream of light
in a consuming tunnel of onyx)— these last two lines seem to only add aesthetics,
this could be our ubiquitous infinity. I see where you are going, but it may only give
an impression of opposition, not a draining or wasting of light
it was cleft lips, cracked and dried by the sands of time, a lot of words for thirst
trespassing—barely there—
skimming with such unceremonious speed.
it was lazy moments of reluctance:
devouring, savoring honeysuckle, bliss-filled moans—
drowning in the swollen nectar of the insatiable.
us: pharaohs, gods of dimensions and creations,
parsimoniously indulging, haughtily hoarding all of life's wine.
it was shared laughter: (effervescent, evanescent);
radiating, echoing within the permeable chambers
of our labyrinth: this was for me and for you; ugg.."labyrinth" AGAIN? no, please.
it is for me; and it is for you. me doesn't cover a suspect of spectrum
it was blushing secrets: (no, please, we shouldn't)
shared with (bleak) opalescent willingness.
thrusting desires to the beat of our fibrillating hearts.
us: the fountainhead of evolution,
gilded parents, burying a multitude of children;
tombstones sculpted with the name of "shame." I think this harsh and whiny, without providing
a background of justification
it was finally unleashed—gates of heated passion ruptured open.
saccharine euphoria oozing as though from a sun-ripened peach
it was perfection, beautiful, and it was fervently revered;
it was stigmatized with the premonition of heart-rendering ischemia;
hog-tied down (my love, we must get back up) and unhinging our demineralized bones a repairable awkward form here
from their homely sockets.
it was love.
it was over.
Interesting read. I am thankful for it. It encouraged me to get excited enough to look up lit. terms and sparked my interest to learn. I wondered if it was written by someone gifted to teach who has been stifled or walks a new chosen direction, yet the gift remains strong and pure. I have written poetry using parenthesis, but limited myself to just one, I find them useful for adding to thought or promoting subconscious views. It works well here and actually adds to the poem IMO. It helped me to look within. My critique to this poem is a silly fear I have faced, because the poem is so large and wonderful, it took some courage... but it somehow is revealing how bravery often holds hidden blessings.
