She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, producing bespoke throat bent ironwork.
He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. She was just a performer, touring cross country under a shroud of sawdust and candyfloss.
Each evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos. She was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere, animated only by the sword.
The tent was put up and taken down. The people blew in then out. The blade inserted and withdrawn. Just the taste of metal lingered.
(third bloody version when I can't decide my own mind) She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, producing bespoke throat bent ironwork.
He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. She was just a performer, touring cross country under a shroud of sawdust and candyfloss.
Each evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos. She was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut. The tent was put up and taken down. The people blew in then out. The blade inserted and withdrawn. Only the taste of metal lingered. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere, animated only by the sword. She saw no point in ever removing it.
(second version) She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, producing bespoke throat bent ironwork. He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. She was just a performer, touring cross country under a shroud of sawdust and candyfloss.
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos. She was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down. The people blew in then out. The blade inserted and withdrawn. Limbs switched and returned. Her pointless manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword.
The taste of metal lingered. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere, animated only when she put her sword in.
(Initial version)
She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure, accordingly. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, making bespoke throat bent ironwork. He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. But she was just a performer, touring cross country under the smell of sawdust and candyfloss.
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos... she was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, removed edge straight again; impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down, the people blew in then out, the sword inserted and withdrawn, limbs switched and returned. Her manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. All was pointless.
Her self-doubt deepened. Her coiled body, a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere. She became her own slowest torturer. The roars of the dusk audience dimmed. After many years all she could taste was the metal, all the time. When the circus closed she did not move. When her brother died she did not speak. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. She only animated when she put her sword in.
(Sorry I know prose poetry looks shit in forum formatting, thanks for reading!)
(01-24-2017, 08:34 AM)Donald Q. Wrote: She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure, accordingly. (I haven't been able to see the value in "accordingly") Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, making bespoke throat bent ironwork. (I can't make sense of making bespoke, I can see the play on spoke but it's a stumble for me.) He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. But she was just a performer, touring cross country under the smell of sawdust and candyfloss. (I love the idea of the opening, and the simplicity of the description contrasts nicely with the language below.)
Evert evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos... she was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. (Big fan of these two phrases, love the sonics and imagery.) But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, removed edge straight again; (Removed...again has an awlwardness to it. I'm not sure you need the phrase at all. ) impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down, the people blew in then out, the sword inserted and withdrawn, limbs switched and returned. Her manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. All was pointless.(I like the switch back to simple facts. )
Her self-doubt deepened. Her coiled body, a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere. (I would prefer the comma after "body" to disappear.) She became her own slowest torturer. The roars of the dusk audience dimmed. After many years all she could taste was the metal, all the time. When the circus closed she did not move. (I'm on the fence on "move", it seems a missed opportunity for a better word.) When her brother died she did not speak. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. (Yes this.) She only animated when she put her sword in. (Something is unsatisfying about the last line, I don't think it's the thought, maybe the language.)
Thanks for the read.
(Sorry I know prose poetry looks shit in forum formatting, thanks for reading!)
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
(01-24-2017, 08:34 AM)Donald Q. Wrote: Clean, or maybe I'm more lenient with this sort of stuff. Yeah, the forum format don't really do it justice. Thoughts:
Indent to start each paragraph improves the weird formatting, I think, each including the start.
She was a contortionist, sword-swallower, and a failure, accordingly. "accordingly" is not a style of speech heard anywhere else in the poem -- sets up false expectations Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist, sword-swallower, and strongman with a business, making bespoke throat bent ironwork. "bespoke throat bent ironwork", lovely sonics, though I'm sure there's a better term than "making" He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. lol But she was just a performer, touring cross country under the smell of sawdust and candyfloss. not sure "under the smell" is the right usage. i feel like "smell" could be better, say a more tangible term like "wind", "smoke", even "aura"
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos... don't see the need for the ellipsis she was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. nice But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, removed edge straight again; not sure if semicolon instead of the probably wrong comma, or the abused-by-myself em dash impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down, the people blew in then out, the sword inserted and withdrawn, limbs switched and returned. now this is something i'm more sure should be em dashes instead of commas -- periods would make it too choppy, so would semicolons, but commas don't give each statement enough breath. but still, i do abuse that mark... Her manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. would prefer, just for a more coherent image, "imprints" All was pointless. veers too close to a joke, for me. maybe i've heard too many sword puns
Her self-doubt deepened. Her coiled body, a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere. She became her own slowest torturer. The roars of the dusk audience dimmed. After many years all she could taste was the metal, all the time. When the circus closed she did not move. When her brother died she did not speak. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. She only animated when she put her sword in. somehow, this whole paragraph reeks excess for me, as if the poem strives to reach an epiphany it already has an equivalent of. "her own slowest torturer" sounds a little too maudlin; the bits of decay, incidental, as if that was never the point of the poem; and the final two sentences, hollow. the only good sentence here is "her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere", which as ellajam noted has the singular problem of being one comma too many -- perhaps move it to another place, delete the rest. otherwise, lovely work
(Sorry I know prose poetry looks shit in forum formatting, thanks for reading!)
clean as in it's free of clutter, at least for me. for the first edit, other than that last paragraph, every detail clicked, according to the main point. so clean, at least in my case, is a good thing. i hope to look at the new edit later.
Nice edit. I like "the taste of metal lingered". The period after torpid bothers me, if you want to keep the next line a fragment maybe some other punctuation.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
This is a cool poem. I like how dense the language is, but sometimes the clusters of adjectives fail to advance the poem (or even the image). In particular, the line "billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere" sounds cool but doesn't add much to "a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind." Basically, I feel like this poem's meaning can be reduced and that the metaphors don't contribute anything other than stylistic flair: her brother is a sword swallower who bends the blades he puts in his throat. she does not have this ability, so no matter how elegant her sword-swallowing is, it is less commercially viable.
If this ^ is what the poem 'means,' that meaning is established by the first line/stanza and does not change throughout the poem, no matter how intently you describe the way she performs her sword-swallowing. You have a lot of cool lines and sounds and associations, but they fail imo to build to anything or subvert the reader's expectations.
Well, DQ, not finding that much to pick at since you're amazing, but a couple of things:
(01-24-2017, 08:34 AM)Donald Q. Wrote: She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure. Love the unexpected 'failure' right off the bat. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, producing bespoke throat bent ironwork. I don't understand why especially he needs to be estranged. I get the sibling rivalry, but we're not told how or why the relationship decayed to this level. He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. She was just a performer, touring cross country under a shroud of sawdust and candyfloss. Candelabra and candyfloss are two of my favorite words. Points for making me smile.
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos. She was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down. The people blew in then out. The blade inserted and withdrawn. Limbs switched and returned. Her pointless manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. I'd drop 'pointless' -- the fact that she's not having the desired effect on the sword conveys this already.
The taste of metal lingered. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere, animated only when she put her sword in. To me this reads as if it's missing a 'was' in between 'body' and 'a', unless you meant for 'animated' to be the verb, in which case I'd punctuate differently: 'Her coiled body -- a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere -- animated....' Otherwise the first bit leads the reader to think there's no verb at first because two clauses are separating the noun and verb. It's confusing.
She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure, accordingly. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, making bespoke throat bent ironwork. He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. But she was just a performer, touring cross country under the smell of sawdust and candyfloss.
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos... she was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, removed edge straight again; impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down, the people blew in then out, the sword inserted and withdrawn, limbs switched and returned. Her manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. All was pointless.
Her self-doubt deepened. Her coiled body, a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere. She became her own slowest torturer. The roars of the dusk audience dimmed. After many years all she could taste was the metal, all the time. When the circus closed she did not move. When her brother died she did not speak. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. She only animated when she put her sword in.
(Sorry I know prose poetry looks shit in forum formatting, thanks for reading!)
I guess I will have to give in and remove my stupid pointless pun; you guys got me bang to rights on that one. I will work on a new edit... does anyone have any more comments in line with that of amaril's about the narrative of the poem... does it need to go somewhere? I feel like maybe it's fine for it to end without resolution, because the whole poem is kind of unsatisfied? Or am I just being lazy?
(01-24-2017, 08:34 AM)Donald Q. Wrote: She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, producing bespoke throat bent ironwork. I got Lizzie's point of estranged perhaps not being necessary, but at the same time that bit of color does animate the not-appearing-in-this-poem brother. It goes either way for me. He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. She was just a performer, touring cross country under a shroud of sawdust and candyfloss. Maybe, just for the sake of brevity, "under shrouds of sawdust and candyfloss"?
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos. Again for brevity, "Every night"? She was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. Again for brevity, "a human wind-vane." But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. Kinda bothered that this is a period instead of, say, a comma, since the next sentence is technically just a fragment. For each time the supple metal righted itself, impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down.The people blew in then out. The blade inserted and withdrawn. Limbs switched and returned. Her pointless manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. The taste of metal lingered. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere, animated only when she put her sword in.
Especially with "her pointless maneuvers..." being effectively the same as "for each time the supple metal righted itself", I think these last two paragraphs could be compressed even further. "animated only when she put her sword in" itself needs animation, or perhaps, to end it even more coldly, deletion; "her coiled body was a fallow tract", or perhaps just the replacement of the preceding period with a comma; "the blade was inserted and withdrawn", or perhaps "the blade entered and withdrew". And so:
The tent rose and fell. People blew in and out. The blade entered, withdrew. Limbs switched -- the taste of metal lingered. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid, her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere.
And the indents can be more consistent, although that's not even a nit against the piece, more against the difficulties of indenting in an online forum. Otherwise, yes, this second edit is better, and I don't think the story needs to go "anywhere" -- it does go somewhere, that somewhere's just bleak (and in its bleakness beautiful). Again, lovely work.
She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure, accordingly. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, making bespoke throat bent ironwork. He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. But she was just a performer, touring cross country under the smell of sawdust and candyfloss.
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos... she was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, removed edge straight again; impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down, the people blew in then out, the sword inserted and withdrawn, limbs switched and returned. Her manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. All was pointless.
Her self-doubt deepened. Her coiled body, a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere. She became her own slowest torturer. The roars of the dusk audience dimmed. After many years all she could taste was the metal, all the time. When the circus closed she did not move. When her brother died she did not speak. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. She only animated when she put her sword in.
(Sorry I know prose poetry looks shit in forum formatting, thanks for reading!)
If you need to ask whether you're being lazy, you know the answer.
Kidding aside, I do think the "hem" of it is left unfinished. But, that's a style choice. If you did nothing else with it, I'd still love it; but there is room at the end to wrap up or take things in an unexpected direction. I don't feel like one option is better than another, but I'd be interested in reading a few ideas for another stanza at the end if you are so inclined.
You could always get her and her brother back together at the end. Maybe she could find some peace or self-acceptance. Maybe she could accidentally fall on her sword during a stage production and horrify the front row with a grotesque, bloody scene.
Wait, what just happened to serious workshopping??? We're allowed to be arseholes now? Sweet. -- if after all this time you still believe this is acceptable feedback for this forum, and you are still incapable of reading forum guidelines, then you weren't waiting for our permission to be an arsehole/ Admin
Overall, this is fantastic. Quite an entertaining read. You do a great job with contrasting her/brother in the opening part, and the end brought an empty longing to mind. I like the subtle scent-imagery with "sawdust and candyfloss". The two comments I made are the only issues I have with it. You're talented! Don't think it needs to "go anywhere" after the ending you have.
(01-24-2017, 08:34 AM)Donald Q. Wrote: She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, producing bespoke throat bent ironwork. He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. She was just a performer, touring cross country under a shroud of sawdust and candyfloss.
Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos. She was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.
The tent was put up and taken down. The people blew in then out. The blade inserted and withdrawn. Limbs switched and returned. Her pointless manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword. That line tripped me up a little. It read, for me, with two different subjects. The blade was inserted and withdrawn, or the blade inserted and withdrew?
The taste of metal lingered. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere, animated only when she put her sword in. something about this last part bothers me. I think ending on "in" weakens it a little.
This is one of the ones I keep coming back to. I haven't commented up till now as its taken me awhile to collect my thoughts. Hopefully, some of this will help with the revision.
(01-24-2017, 08:34 AM)Donald Q. Wrote: She was a contortionist sword-swallower and a failure. Her brother, estranged, was a contortionist sword-swallower and strongman with a business, producing bespoke throat bent ironwork. --So we are introduced to the siblings. Very alike yet perceived differently. The big difference seems to be that unlike the sister the brother can bring changes to the blade. She is more of a receptacle. She becomes the art in a way but is not the artist. You see why they are estranged at least on one very basic level. He can transcend the simple elements of their shared craft. I think this is tightly written and works well. One possible suggestion to keep the structure more symmetrical is to end on business. You could than reveal the type of business in the next sequence (I'm not sure that would necessarily be an improvement just something you might look at to mix it up in the revision). Possibly starting with, "He produced bespoke throat bent ironwork. He'd won prizes..." He'd won prizes. He had a profile in the New Yorker, he was an artist. She was just a performer, touring cross country under a shroud of sawdust and candyfloss. This sequence has a good pacing. I like the staccato delivery of it. It also has the sense of being repeated over and over by the sister herself. You can hear the self-loathing in it. Every evening she draped herself around a blade, bending with the crowd's ooos.--Transient to her and unsatisfying. She was a candelabra of cutlasses, a human vane in the night-wind.--Very good because this makes her more object than performer. She becomes something that is more acted upon than act. Her own self-identity. But no matter how good her act, she was not satisfied. For each time the supple metal righted itself, impressed only with the ghostly slick of her gut.--Thematically nice as she cannot change the blade by working with. The key difference between her brother and rival. The tent was put up and taken down. The people blew in then out. The blade inserted and withdrawn. Limbs switched and returned. Her pointless manoeuvres left no imprint upon the sword.--I'm less concerned about the pun and more bothered by having the outcome spelled out for me. I'd consider removing the period after returned and condensing "Her pointless manoeuvres left" to "with" The taste of metal lingered.--like this. She billowed and bloomed like a jellyfish, transparent and torpid. Her coiled body a fallow tract, a whorl to nowhere, animated only when she put her sword in.--The source of her disappointment, the reminder of her disappointment also is the only time she appears to have a sense of life in her. I like the sequence and the imagery here. I prefer this ending to the original. Possibly you could also choose to end with her unwilling to pull the sword out locked in a Schrodinger's cat type dilemma. It might be good to leave her stuck. Just a thought
Not sure how helpful any of that was, but I did enjoy what you've written.
I just want to voice my support of "estranged". I love the sonics of it and it sets the sister as alone. I see a sibling relationship extremely close given that their lives must have revolved around their shared skill. The specifics of an incident that broke them don't matter to me, I know it was life-altering. For me you give enough of a basis for conflict in what you've already said.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
To be honest I didn't really care for the pun that much either, but I felt like ending on the giving up part made sense and was struggling to find a way to phrase it. I'm not really sold on the ending in this edit, but I recognise that the previous one was also lacking.
I like the content of the new ending, with her giving up and wanting to just keep it inside of her forever (a reference to suicidal ideation?), but I'm not sold on the phrasing. The piece feels a little melancholy; especially with the ending, I'm sad for her. The pun feels out of place and takes me away from the mood of the piece. JMO.
