Experimental Prose Poem

[heslopian]

It is a paradox of life that gay men often have the most incestuous relationships with their mothers.

*

My mind is a Third World village. Rain pours on it ceaselessly. The shanties weren't built to take such punishment. The shutters bang their frames like carpet beaters. Shriveled women of indeterminate age sit on the sagging porches saying, doing, thinking nothing, as their children hassle passing cars.

*

One room in one house on one street, however, contains an English decadence, with a flower print rug before a roaring fire, two deer hide armchairs standing guard, and on a small table between them a silver tea set. The walls are covered in portraits of my mother.

*

The one above the mantelpiece shows her leering just a bit, the shoulder of her dress pulled down slightly, revealing a pink bra strap. Her hair is coal black. She looks like a sexy mortician. Another shows her much younger, when my father still loved her; framed in cheap brown imitation leather, it once adorned the bedside table in my grandmother's guest room. I stole it when I was fifteen. Now it's here.

*

The door of this room is locked. The woman whose house it belongs to isn't allowed in. None of the villagers are.

[Touchstone]

"My mind is a Mexican village. Rain pours on it ceaselessly. The houses weren't built to take such punishment."

Does that qualify as a mixed metaphor? I'm not sure of the terminology but although I like the sound of those lines I don't think they make any sense. Rain doesn't pour ceaselessly on Mexican villages. And, in places where rain does pour ceaselessly, the houses are built to take it.

..."retains an English decadence"

Again, I like the sound, but the sense is missing. I don't think there is any significant English decadence in Mexico. Spanish decadence perhaps?

"framed in cheap brown imitation leather"

It's a small point, but then this is Serious Critique. A "cheap brown imitation leather" frame is incongruous with decadence and full deer-hide armchairs. Although I'll grant that the grandmother may have been poor while the mother was not, it still seems an unnecessary disparity to introduce. But I do like the stanza (or whatever the term is).

"The woman whose house it belongs to isn't allowed in."

Strikes me as being too real. I thought we were talking about the mind of a gay man (being like a Mexican village). Now you're talking as if there is a real Mexican woman who owns a real house in Mexico. Maybe you're being poetical and I'm just not poetical enough to "get it". But...I don't get it.

I like the idea of the work, and all of the phrases in it (as individual phrases). I just don't think they all fit together coherently.

[heslopian]

Thank you for your critique, Touchstone
I wasn't sure about the Mexican village, either, when juxtaposed against the rain. I can't remember why I didn't change it to "Third World" as I was planning to, and as such I'll change it once I've finished this.
I understand your other criticisms, like the incongruous mix of English decadence and Mexico, but this is an extended metaphor; it isn't supposed to make literal sense; it's more about symbolism. Basically, coherence wasn't my aim here; I know that sounds like a shitty excuse for obscure banality, and it may well be haha. I think I might change the word "retains" though, as I think it implies that the village is English, if you know what I mean.
Thanks for complimenting the phrases, and again for your feedback

[billy]

It is a paradox of life that gay men often have the most incestuous relationships with their mothers.

*

My mind is a Mexican village. Rain pours on it ceaselessly. The houses weren't built to take such punishment. The shutters bang their frames like carpet beaters. Shriveled women of indeterminate age sit on the sagging porches saying, doing, thinking nothing, as their children hassle passing cars.

mexico isn't well known for ceaseless rain. though i get the point of the metaphore; that your mind is inundated, though with what? possibly an emotion of connected to the opening line. i love the underlined lines

*

One room in one house on one street, however, retains an English decadence, with a flower print rug before a roaring fire, two deer hide armchairs, and on a small table between them a silver tea set. The walls are covered in portraits of my mother. love the deer hide armchairs though i would have liked them better in an image, ie; two deer hide armchairs standing guard, or some such

*

The one above the mantelpiece shows her leering just a bit, the shoulder of her dress pulled down slightly, revealing a pink bra strap. Her hair is coal black. She looks like a sexy mortician. Another shows her much younger, when my father still loved her; framed in cheap brown imitation leather, it once adorned the bedside table in my grandmother's guest room. I stole it when I was fifteen. Now it's here.
this is my favourite stanza, it shows what was, and brings us to what is.
She looks like a sexy mortician, is a great line, a pale skin being the sign of beauty in hot climes.
*

The door of this room is locked. The woman whose house it belongs to isn't allowed in. None of the villagers are.

i get the feeling that the whole poem is a metaphor. it's as if you aren't letting your mother into your head. that she's dead to you. (maybe too strong a phrase but it's what i see) the one room is your father. it's like vignettes of memory, i also took the incestuous relationship as a metaphor for maybe being fucked over, (excuse the french) as though she was somehow to blame for being gay.

what can i say, my mind could be hanging on a thread here lol.

i did enjoy the read. if i had to really change one thing it would be to change the rain to maybe, ceaseless earthquakes

thanks for the read jack.

[heslopian]

Thanks for your feedback and kind words, Billy As Touchstone said, I think some individual phrases are good, but the central narrative is all over the place. I might try removing said phrases later, and sewing them into a better story.
I've since changed "Mexico" to "Third World," which I think is a tad more realistic.
I like your interpretation very much; it's another example of Harold Bloom's theory, I think, that the reader can sometimes have a better idea of what a poem is about than even the poet himself.
I'll add "standing guard" to the "deer hide armchairs" once I've finished this; I kind of like that appendage.
Thanks again for your lovely critique

[Todd]

Hi Jack,

You have some great stuff here. Here are some comments and suggestions for you to consider.

It is a paradox of life that gay men often have the most incestuous relationships with their mothers.--okay here's the controlling sentence (and from observation I think you're strangely correct for a lot of people) I don't know if you need "of life' what does it really add.

*

So now we ask ourselves how does the speaker contend with the truth he previously presented. We go internal. The rain are the thoughts that beat down not giving him peace or a way to recover. There's a sense of noice (rain, carpet beaters). I realize that not everything has to make coherent sense but I will point things out in case you want to work on them. Is there a better word than houses (i.e., shanties, shacks, lean-to) something that conveys more strongly the picture. Houses feels like a more vague choice than it has to be. Do they have shutters and porches? This feels more like a dilapitated southern manor that has lost its luster. I like carpet beaters and shriveled women of indeterminate age.

My mind is a Third World village. Rain pours on it ceaselessly. The houses weren't built to take such punishment. The shutters bang their frames like carpet beaters. Shriveled women of indeterminate age sit on the sagging porches saying, doing, thinking nothing, as their children hassle passing cars.

*

I don't expect many of the third world houses have rooms but that isn't distracting to me here because were moving closer into the internal life of the speaker. English decadence with a flower print rug and a roaring fire convey dealing with the relationship from the perspective of a gay man. Now the thoughts coalesce into pictures on the wall--the mother, the great dichotomy. This section has some wonderful specific concrete details. I like it a lot. One other thought because of what you are doing in the next section (focusing on one specific portrait) would it be stronger to go from street to house to room than in the next section portrait. It seems like this starts panning out when we really are panning in. [/b]

One room in one house on one street, however, contains an English decadence, with a flower print rug before a roaring fire, two deer hide armchairs standing guard, and on a small table between them a silver tea set. The walls are covered in portraits of my mother.

*

Now the camera pans in closer we have moved to focus on one portrait and the central one above the mantelpiece. Great description throughout. I love the pink bra strap, the sexy mortician, the "when my father still loved her". I also like that the second photo comes from a simpler poorer time and it was all the more genuine for it. This is all so good.

The one above the mantelpiece shows her leering just a bit, the shoulder of her dress pulled down slightly, revealing a pink bra strap. Her hair is coal black. She looks like a sexy mortician. Another shows her much younger, when my father still loved her; framed in cheap brown imitation leather, it once adorned the bedside table in my grandmother's guest room. I stole it when I was fifteen. Now it's here.

*

Wonderful. She doesn't get to choose how she is viewed or remembered. Stellar close.

The door of this room is locked. The woman whose house it belongs to isn't allowed in. None of the villagers are.

The finish really sells it. It was an excellent poem Jack.

Best,

Todd[/b]

[heslopian]

Thank you for the feedback and kind words, Todd I like your alternatives to "houses"; I'll replace it with "shanties" once I've finished this.
I agree with you about the shutters and the porches, but I like the image so much that I'm not willing to sacrifice it for cohesion haha.
Thanks again for your lovely response

[Touchstone]

Oh, maybe I do get it now. The "...woman whose house it belongs to...," is the mother?

[heslopian]

Oh, maybe I do get it now. The "...woman whose house it belongs to...," is the mother?

Actually no, she was just a random woman, inserted to add density to the metaphor. But that's a good interpretation, Touchstone; as I wrote in my reply to Billy, sometimes the reader has a better idea of what a poem is about than the poet himself.