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Hiatus
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew
in the corner of a must-scented
room, blue for the evening,
with a blue stained sofa borrowed
years ago from one of mom's
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years.
I mean a poem is like a dream
in that you don't remember most of it.
Or the moon is like the broken
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got it
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle,
with its dust, only it plays
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable.
False plants curl in the shadow
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair.
The typewriter I rarely touch
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight.
I've written some good poems on that machine.
Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect
but at least themselves. Years ago
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark—
covered with scratches and cup rings.
This is the same house, rearranged.
Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon.
I've got work, and also
I think I'll lose my mind.
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity
will drift forever from my life
and become the stuff of dreams.
Posts: 102
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(02-18-2017, 04:08 AM)amaril Wrote: Hiatus
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew intruiging, doesn't quite make sense yet but it is pleasant, sets a tone
in the corner of a must-scented
room, blue for the evening, blue for the evening is pleasant
with a blue stained sofa borrowed Blue is an odd colour of stain to get... what is it, some cocktail spillage?
years ago from one of mom's
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years. By the end of this sentence I thought the first line would have become more clear, but I still don't understand how beer = lampshade
I mean a poem is like a dream
in that you don't remember most of it. These two lines are a bit too direct I think... not sure
Or the moon is like the broken
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got it awkward phrasing, I think you can get away without repeating broken, perhaps.
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle, 'crocked' ???
with its dust, only it plays
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable. Ha
False plants curl in the shadow False plants, nice
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair.
The typewriter I rarely touch
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight.
I've written some good poems on that machine.
Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect Maybe too many lines here explaining this writing process
but at least themselves. Years ago
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark—
covered with scratches and cup rings.
This is the same house, rearranged.
Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon.
I've got work, and also
I think I'll lose my mind.
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity
will drift forever from my life
and become the stuff of dreams. A lot of direct detail in this last stanza. An interesting approach, plenty of poets would not give anything like this direct detail. I don't hate it, but just make sure you are sure of every word and beat if you are going to open up this frankly.
This is very frank poem about the writing of poetry, and seems very directly conversational.
It seems like the lines are all aspiring to be almost the same length, occasionally the lack of consistent meter undercuts this aim, but it's not always a problem. These two elements mean that the poem feels slightly aimless; the main through-line of imagery seems to be about fakeness and lacking; unused and broken machines, unreal belongings, a near-comatose dog... I think that this mood can be harnessed further. It's difficult to balance the sense of aimlessness with the content of the poem, I personally think some of the lines can be got rid of, but obviously as a whole you are going for something slightly sprawling so you will have to make a judgement call there. Look forward to reading an edit.
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(02-18-2017, 04:08 AM)amaril Wrote: Hi amaril,
this is a nice one to crit because it is quintessentially a glimpse in to the thought processes of the character...and as such, allows the crit no wiggle-space on content. It is what it is. So, a clean and objective look at the "words" and the use of same is in order. Here goes.
Hiatus
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew Potentially a good opener. Direct observation but surely a gestalt...that is, nothing more to say...it is understandable
in the corner of a must-scented Some confusion here...musk-scented? mutch-scented? Typo?If typo, then you SHOULD have caught it.
room, blue for the evening,
with a blue stained sofa borrowed
years ago from one of mom's
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years.Cantilevered sentence. Way out over its C of G. Needs to be cut up and cauterised with punctuation. Psychological connotations of "blue" are fine; sadness, depression, loneliness etc....but not happy about the physicality of two blues, one of which is a stain which shall remain unexplained.
I mean a poem is like a dreamDo you mean it? Is it? How did we get here from there? This is jumpy. Some connective tissue missing methinks. (more to come) You have not established a contra requiring you to begin with "what I mean to say is...".The " I mean" is redundant. So " A poem is like so many dreams, I can't remember most of them". Why first person? Well, you started it with " I mean...". Switching between first and third person is not a crime, but in a poem with more I's than floccinaucinihilipilification you are well advised to stay true to yourself.
in that you don't remember most of it.
Or the moon is like the brokenTake care. This is close to havering. The moon is NOT like the broken record player in any rational or...perish the thought....poetic sense; UNLESS you tell me why. Which you do not.
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got it
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle,
with its dust, only it plays
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable.Hmmm. Well, as some glimpse in to the characters thought train WAS the original (and increasingly, the only) virtue of this piece you are getting very close to blowing it. Rendering is better than rending. You google it....then correct the word, then re-write this cameo so that things follow on naturally. It is a strange thing, but free and musing thoughts tend to link one with another...it is only when we THINK to generate connectivity that things loosen up and fall apart. I believe you could make this work if only you would consider where you are going before you set off. Let's not forget that this is supposed to be poetry, prose or not...and a broken record player which is useless may be a moon to you but if I can't see it then it's a new moon coming.
False plants curl in the shadow
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair.Stop. Think what you are writing. Some of this is great observation but I just don't believe you. False and artificial are not fungible, and why false anyway? What is the shadow of a window SILL, is this THE dog with an odd occasional grunt as against another with a rare yap.
"Plants curl, dead as plastic, in shade on the sill;
the dog grunts, in the way that sleeping dogs do,
curled up on the rug at the foot of the stairs. " PLEASE NOTE! This is how I would go at this, but it is YOUR poem. The rhythm is not set or any more compulsory than rhyme, but you just know when the tweak is an improvement...if it isn't then don't.
The typewriter I rarely touchAgain, same problem. Is this THE typewriter you rarely touch...there is another one??? Or " The typewriter, I rarely touch it, rests beside me on the desk...."
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight.Nice imagery. I can see the white paper, the chrome bits....and I can feel the redundancy and regret
I've written some good poems on that machine.
Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect
but at least themselves. Sorry to interject here, but the words immediately prior do not make sense....though they nearly do.Years ago Dreadfull enjambment. No need for it.
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark—
covered with scratches and cup rings.
This is the same house, rearranged.Very nicely observed and sensitively portrayed. You have gone typewriter, desk,drafts, poems, bedroom, house. It all follows on. This is how like it. I am glad your desk isn't like a broken Greek urn...don't get ideas.
Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon.
I've got work, and also
I think I'll lose my mind.
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.This is the best stanza so far...and it stands on its own merit. Just drop the "I mean..."
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximityNot so good. Bad english. familar in proximity? Hmmmm.
will drift forever from my life Drop the forever word
and become the stuff of dreams.....oh NO. To END on a cliche.....yikes!!!
Some good stuff, some bad. Inconsistency is the problem. Did you write this in one go or over a period of time? All it needs is a little sensitive looking at. I gave it my best shot but you can do your thoughts more justice than any crit.
Best,
tectak
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(02-18-2017, 04:08 AM)amaril Wrote: Hiatus
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew interesting metaphor,
in the corner of a must-scented
room, blue for the evening,I appreciate this because the table is blue in the dark too, we discover later, so the lampshade is askew but it's still dark, like a blue tint over everything triggering the blue mood
with a blue stained sofa borrowed
years ago from one of mom's
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years. Who borrows furniture? I like the sentiment, but sounds strange, not sure if that's character development you intend to portray
I mean a poem is like a dream
in that you don't remember most of it. I thjnk this is a weak sentence, describing writing, but since the rest of the poem seems to deal with struggling to write, this is a nice intro to that theme. I mean, You're sitting in the living g room, talking about your table and desk where you write, so this seems important, going on hiatus cause you're having a hard time making new fresh ideas.
Or the moon is like the broken
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got itbeginning with 'or' in the sentence really solidifies that idea for me
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle,
with its dust, only it playsthe moon and this record metaphor both seem like metaphors for what a poem is,
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable.
False plants curl in the shadow this stanza or strophe is very lively, everything is personified beautifully, plants curl, typewriter rests, even the dog who seems very detached from the speaker (when dogs are usually man's best friend) really opens up the staleness of your surroundings too.
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair.
The typewriter I rarely touch
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight. It's moved from the bedroom to the living area it sounds, loaded with paper cause you clearly want to write, so you change your surroundings to maybe trigger the inspiration
I've written some good poems on that machine.
Or the drafts that later became I'd comma after this and the next 'or'
good poems, or the bad poems remedied and I'd keep the pattern of 'or' starting the sentence, shows a pause and helps with the flow of adding another indecision.
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect
but at least themselves. Years ago even your bad poems you speak about like a parent almost
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark—
covered with scratches and cup rings.
This is the same house, rearranged.
Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon.good use of 'I mean' easy to abuse in personal narrratives
I've got work, and also
I think I'll lose my mind.you work, but I'm sure this isn't about working on poetry, which you seem to want to do, and will lose your mind cause you cant
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goesand then you don't bring up writing again just reinforce the need for a change, and the need to write
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity
will drift forever from my life the first attempt at saying what a poem is, defined by your life as you saw it. Going on hiatus from the bogginess of your surroundings, or on hiatus from writing cause you're out of inspiration. Either way, I love this poem
and become the stuff of dreams.
Nice job ! Thanks for sharing
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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This is an interesting piece of work. As has been suggested by others, you clearly have a lot of powerful images and ideas tucked away, you are clearly trying to express something meaningful here, and you have turned to poetry to communicate it, but the language stands to obfuscate rather than elucidate it. Here are some thoughts:
(02-18-2017, 04:08 AM)amaril Wrote: Hiatus
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew -I don't get the sweet beer = lampshade metaphor
in the corner of a must-scented
room, blue for the evening,
with a blue stained sofa borrowed
years ago from one of mom's
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years.
I mean a poem is like a dream -"I mean" sounds weird to me, as well, and it doesn't seem to serve any purpose
in that you don't remember most of it.
Or the moon is like the broken -agree that this needs explication. This metaphor has no recognizable effect
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got it
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle,
with its dust, only it plays
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable. -definitely rendering, not rending
False plants curl in the shadow -does a plant have a truth value? Or did you mean something like "fake"
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair.
The typewriter I rarely touch
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight.
I've written some good poems on that machine.
Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect
but at least themselves. Years ago
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark—
covered with scratches and cup rings. -this is nice imagery; this is how it should be done
This is the same house, rearranged. -this right here, I feel, encapsulates the main counterpoint of the piece. The tension between familiarity and unfamiliarity, past and present, and the premise of capturing this tension through the objects in the house is great. I would restructure around this idea.
Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon. -again, think hard about what these "I mean"s are doing
I've got work, and also
I think I'll lose my mind.
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity
will drift forever from my life
and become the stuff of dreams.
There's an essential idea here that is valuable. The imagery feels strained but not disingenuous. This could be great given a serious edit.
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Hi, Amaril
Strangely I really like this poem. I say strangely because it is one of my favorite poems so far on this forum & I can't decide if it is because I found myself standing there in the room with so much blue or if it is the style of your writing. It feels warm with without much trouble, and that is enjoyable and refreshing.
Hiatus -I'm going to chew on this title because I find no immediate connection
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew -A beer can lampshade, like those hats they knitted in the 70's?
in the corner of a must-scented - Interesting MUST
room, blue for the evening, -Is the room blue or the narrator? Depression from alcohol?
with a blue stained sofa borrowed
years ago from one of mom's
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years. -I liked this, pulled my mind to another place, had my mind imagining
I mean a poem is like a dream the memories of strangers
in that you don't remember most of it. -Yes, in ways, but one often remembers the strongest parts
Or the moon is like the broken
record player I got as a Christmas gift -(can't find the similes)
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got it
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle,
with its dust, only it plays
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable. -Great description, though. kept me reading
False plants curl in the shadow -"False" plants is a little awkward, isn't it?
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug -cute
at the foot of the stair.
The typewriter I rarely touch -[Best part to me between these brackets
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight.
I've written some good poems on that machine.
Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect
but at least themselves. Years ago
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed. ]
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark— -more blue
covered with scratches and cup rings.
This is the same house, rearranged. -i'm supposed to get this, it's important
Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon.
I've got work, and also [love the rambling
I think I'll lose my mind.
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity ]
will drift forever from my life needs more oomph here
and become the stuff of dreams. a bit cliche
Thank you for the read.
I enjoyed it.
there's always a better reason to love
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Hello amaril,
Your writing style seems quite daring, and perhaps even a bit confusing, because it doesn't seem to have any particular regulations of construction, therefore I found it challenging, but interesting, to investigate. It's free flowing and self-inventive.
The piece has a sense of a memoir / diary notes... which is quite fascinating.
(02-18-2017, 04:08 AM)amaril Wrote: Hiatus
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew ^
in the corner of a must-scented Some interesting visuals here, though I'm a bit puzzled as to what is the relation between the 'Sweet
room, blue for the evening, beer' and the 'lampshade askew in the corner of' the room you're describing. Is that a way of
with a blue stained sofa borrowed describing the impact of the substance?
years ago from one of mom's v
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years. - Not sure if the second use of the word 'years' is the best fit. Maybe something with 'nearly -'
I mean a poem is like a dream - This is quite a fun and true observation, but comes random, because I fail to see how the first lines
in that you don't remember most of it. lead up to this..
Or the moon is like the broken - Why start this with 'Or'? Why moon? Is the moon reference supposed to relate to the one about
record player I got as a Christmas gift a poem?
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got it - I like these descriptive inputs of family life / memories
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle,
with its dust, only it plays - I think the part starting with 'only it' asks for a new sentence, or a different punctuation mark
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable.
False plants curl in the shadow ^
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd I like how these are worded
occasional grunt rests on the rug v
at the foot of the stair. - The ending, especially 'the stair' seems a bit awkward, but settles in more, as I read on..
The typewriter I rarely touch
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight. ^
I've written some good poems on that machine. Beautiful personality and descriptiveness
Or the drafts that later became v
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect
but at least themselves. Years ago
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark—
covered with scratches and cup rings.
This is the same house, rearranged. - Really like how the ending sounds here.
Cold moon tomorrow. - Is the moon supposed to / Does it mean something to you as a poet / writer?
I mean December's full moon. You seem to have some sort of attachment to it,
I've got work, and also but I like how it starts off a fresh stream of thought, and makes you
I think I'll lose my mind. communicate more openly..
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity
will drift forever from my life
and become the stuff of dreams. - Quite a beautiful ending, sounds right... though it leads to a sense of narrative closure, I think the piece has a potential for continuity, because you could again input something random or current, and / or talk about what you did or will do..
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(02-18-2017, 04:08 AM)amaril Wrote: Hiatus
Sweet beer is a lampshade askew I thinka little rephrasing will help this introduction. You've got the tone set, that's good. Are you referencing light from the lamp piercing the beer bottle? It's not exactly clear.
in the corner of a must-scented *Musk? I think just say "musky". Simpler. Or something strong like "piss musk in the corner." Piss and beer are both musky and beer makes you piss. 
room, blue for the evening,
with a blue stained sofa borrowed I like the change of hue in the last line, but the repetition is kind of bland. Is the blue a scent you'd like to describe, or a light you'd like to compare to the beer?
years ago from one of mom's The line-breaks can be re-worked in here.
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years.
I mean a poem is like a dream I'm imagining that all the beer has caused a black-out.
in that you don't remember most of it.
Or the moon is like the broken The usage of simile is strong here, and can be made stronger if you decide to go for the metaphor. Do you think the metaphor will smooth out the phrasing at this point? I just don't like the many words in the line.
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not Always try to expect the best of your audience. We're probably capable of following your train of thought, so try to condense this. "Christmas gift//which was delightful at first".
broken but delightful when I got it
and which now looks cool as ever This sounds like a repetition of the previous line. Just as well, it sounds misleading. Maybe I didn't follow your train of thought so well, but I thought you were comparing its now awful look to its delightful look when you first got it.
with its crocked up lid and needle, Yes, I like this line.
with its dust, only it plays This is where you explain what confused me before. I think this explanation can come earlier. Condense some of the lines, etc., and clear out some of the unneeded detail.
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable. Here you can screw with us. Just what does the wobbling or warping of the sound actually sound like?
False plants curl in the shadow I like this line. It's full of wilting life.
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair. Aw, is the dog stuck there?
The typewriter I rarely touch
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight. I've written a poem about my surroundings before. That's what this reminds me of. The detail is pretty good, as well as simple, in these lines.
I've written some good poems on that machine. Eh, I can see the humility, but maybe this line is not as nastalgic as you intended for it to sound. It seems more of a self-satisfying statement. That's probably fine, but some of the audience will think, "So?"
*So I've thought about this line some more. This time around I think it sunk in. This is one of those lines... I'll like it, I'll dislike it.
Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect I think some condensing, again, will remedy these four lines. Extraneous detail helps the drafts come together, but they are overkill for a final product.
but at least themselves. Years ago
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed. Try explaining which parts haven't changed- scratches, ink spots, writing tools lying in the dust, whatever is there. I want to know.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark— Good, tying the beginning in.
covered with scratches and cup rings. Oh hey, here's some of that detail I wanted.
This is the same house, rearranged. Rearranged, but still the same?
Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon. Don't justify with "I mean." It may be a technique I'm unfamiliar with, but personally I think you don't need to tell us that you mean anything. The poem speaks for itself as it's written.
I've got work, and also
I think I'll lose my mind. Hmm, what for?
Just a little. In spring I'll move out. Getting older.
Leaving my parents and sister, and Saying goodbye.
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes This reminds me of another poem I wrote (similar topic). I like that you aren't telling us she is your younger sister. She is just your sister following your footsteps. Definitely creates an atmosphere.
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity
will drift forever from my life
and become the stuff of dreams. I love, but hate nostalgia. Seriously.
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