Forge

[Todd]

hmmm what about this:

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 The blade inserted and withdrawn. Only the taste of metal lingered.

[Donald Q.]

You may be onto something there.

With a minor tweak;

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 The blade inserted and withdrawn.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.

[ellajam]

Oh, I love the end lines now, they reinvigorated the piece for me,I think you've grabbed the golden ring there.

[Todd]

I think it works. When I feel underwhelmed by opening or closing lines. I look through the poem for the lines that really stand out and then I try to rework the poem to begin or end on that line. The taste of metal lingering is one of those defining lines. Even if it doesn't end up working just shifting how you look at the poem will often unlock an answer for you.

[Donald Q.]

Yeah, thanks for the nudge that way Todd, your method is a good one.
I sometimes forget to step back when I've been working on a poem for a while; it's easy to forget than you can change anything you damn well like!

[nibbed]

Hi, this is cleverly written and I absolutely envision a sort of 20's circus scene, a dusty pink tent decked in worn sage colored flags edged in canvas battlement awnings that blow in the breeze. I can almost touch those walls pasted in once brightly penned posters exclusive to her act. I wish she had a name, though, to pull it all together and bring life to her character, or perhaps make mention of another act, like Strong Man, who set up his tent in the same venue, delivered from the same train. I can almost see him: handlebar mustache, black boxer boots, grey poop chute undies, hair parted in the middle, those round ended barbells easily tossed about as though they are filled with air...the Man who keeps her swords polished in secret, feeds her when she can't get to the marketplace...understands her...or something that would make it so it doesn't appear she is completely alone.


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 wondered why you called her a failure...Unless SHE thought she was a failure and the narrator is speaking her thoughts. I just get the feeling the narrator might be a fellow female sword swallower, or maybe someone competitive? Makes for interesting conjecture in my mind.

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. I see the word estranged as they were only separated at intervals, maybe because they followed different circuits, but no animosity, perhaps she was proud of him or saw him as her mentor, both at one time struggling artists, he was the one who fared better. It's as though the narrator loathes her, yet loves her, or is drawn to her struggles to succeed, saddened almost, there's something unreachable there...I love the use of the words sawdust and candyfloss. I read sweet dusty smells with color of pleasantness in that sentence.

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 doesn't fit, a whorl to nowhere, animated only by the sword. I would try to rework a whorl to nowhere, too, because she does exist and is somewhere.

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. she's still unforgettable to the narrator, worthy of pen, is that the taste of metal lingered?


Thank you kindly for the read, I enjoyed it immensely. Best wishes to you.