Posts: 45
Threads: 7
Joined: Feb 2018
Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Revision#3
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
that was thirteen years ago come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma she’d know.
Guess I couldn’t bear to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a woman of great presence until then.
Instead, we played cricket that day, me and my pals
while Ma sat with Da and Granda and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices, ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie didn’t like Ma and blamed her for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda sat praying. To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew colder to the touch,
although she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this has come to mind
thirteen years on come May, but I’d wager
eating pears is what does it.
No longer picked from Granny’s tree
but still ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets.
R[i]evision#2[/i]
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind
thirteen years on
come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Revision#1
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree,
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent—
Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Posts: 703
Threads: 141
Joined: Oct 2017
Hi Johnny.
Lots to like - the attention to detail is excellent -
but it does ramble quite a lot and I think that
rather dilutes the emotion/impact of the piece.
I'd also suggest restructuring it into verses
(for easier reading if nothing else)
- here's a rough go just as an idea for your consideration.
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died I was fifteen
she [not yet] sixty, so young
to go in this day and age,
almost thirteen years ago come May.
[i don't remember the day, exactly]
if you’d ask my ma she’d know.
[but I know] I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up [like that]
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is [Catholics] do (not a very convincing line)
when they’re about to return to God?
Instead,my pals and me played cricket.
picnicking on the square just outside
the crease, whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch of ham and cheese
the crusts cut off, [sweat excusing tears,]
cans of bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and pears for afters [from] Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and clean sheets,
her death was played out
to raised voices, or at least
that’s what I was told, ignorant
of the fact that the ears are the last to go.
Auntie blamed Ma for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time anger was spent,
and all the while Granda sat praying,
bargaining, he would have sacrificed his faith
in this instant because “WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK
WHERE HER SALVATION CAME FROM ?”
I can’t say why this has come to mind
almost thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her up on birthdays
and after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is what does it.
No[t] from Granny's own tree, but still
ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets.
Best, Knot.
Posts: 45
Threads: 7
Joined: Feb 2018
Hey Knot,
Cheers for the response, taken on board a lot of the feedback and got my scissors out for a little trim, no matter how many times I've been told I ramble, I still hate cutting stuff out! Must be the Irish in me. Originally I did have this in stanzas, then I didn't for some reason and having taken your comments on board I do like the stanzas so they're back.
Again thank you so much
Forever a rambler
Johnny
Posts: 751
Threads: 408
Joined: May 2014
Hey Johnny, quite enjoying this. I'll see if I can be of any help.
(02-25-2018, 11:25 PM)20_Hamilton_18 Wrote: Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Revision#1
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago "almost" and "Come May" don't live well together. The first sounds vague, the second more exact. Consider striking one or the other
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we not sure about the semi-colon here. If you stick with it "and" is not needed
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of Just me, but I want something more memorable than Ham and cheese here. Some thing to complement the bass shandy
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree, remove this comma and place it after "afters"
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds not sure why this line is a new and fragmented sentence
in tears unspent—
Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie confusingly short line. Looks more important than it is. Consider moving up "didn't like Ma"
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?” I think the expletive does enough work that the CAPS are unnecessary
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May, there's "almost/come May" again. Pick the one you struck in the first strophe. 
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
I prefer the piece broken up into verses, but I think you should consider some of the line breaks again. There are a number of short lines that don't need to be.
Good luck with this and don't feel like you need to edit too quickly. It's your poem, not ours.
Paul
Posts: 45
Threads: 7
Joined: Feb 2018
Hey Paul, thanks for the response, I've made a few changes re your feedback nothing major, but I've looked at the structure at certain points and I think having read it to myself it's really helped with the flow.
In terms of firing through edits and revisions at the minute, I'm blessed or cursed with being unemployed at the minute so I have very little else to do all day, after by endless job search but sit and revise some of my poetry if I've not been lucky enough to write anything new that day.
Anywayz thanks again
Johnny
Posts: 2,357
Threads: 230
Joined: Oct 2010
02-27-2018, 02:45 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-27-2018, 02:48 AM by Todd.)
Hi Johnny,
I've read the previous revisions but will confine my comments to the latest version.
The first thing I would look at is your use of each individual line. Look at each in isolation and ask yourself: 1) how interesting or evocative they are 2) what is the end word on each line and how does it apply to your themes, or put another way are you ending your lines on throwaway words?
To me, you seem to be making line breaks by feel and not maximizing their purpose. I'll comment on some lines below, but structurally this is the biggest issue I have with your poem.
(02-25-2018, 11:25 PM)20_Hamilton_18 Wrote: Revision#2
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died--died is a good end word. The line itself though feels a bit clipped and choppy for an opener. Maybe build the thought out a bit more (example: I was fifteen when granny died,
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,--sixty adds little as a word to break on (breaking on young or go would probably be better)
so young to go in this day
and age, though that--day and age is cliched phrasing and should probably be dropped. Breaking on that is one of those throwaway breaks I was talking about.
was thirteen years ago
come May.--I'm not trying to be pedantic but this is in intensive so: these two lines don't do enough to justify themselves. The content is not the main issue it's simply that they don't have enough weight to stand alone.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a--watch the line breaks on words like "a"
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,--same with instead. It can't hold the line.
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of--most of this section up to this point seems like filler. There should be more focus this comes across as rambling up to sandwiches.
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.--bitter on the tongue is a nice bit as there's a bitterness to the memory
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.--This strophe is the strongest section in the poem for me. I don't like the line break on Aunt, but beyond that this part feels more thematically right. This feels like the essence of the poem you're attempting to write.
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind
thirteen years on
come May,--same comment on the repetition of these two lines.
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.--All of this from Ma sat with Da to the end feels like what your poem wants to be. There's this idea that we write until we get to the poem. I think that's what you've done here. Now, it's your work and just my opinion. So, follow your own instincts.
I hope these comments help some.
Best,
Todd
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
Posts: 45
Threads: 7
Joined: Feb 2018
Hey Todd,
Thanks so much for taking the time to comment, I'll definitely be returning to this at some stage with your comments in mind after sitting on them for a bit. Really like the idea of writing until you get to where you want to go that's most definitely me I'd say.
All in all you've given me a lot to think about and I can't thank you enough for that, it'll keep me out of trouble for a while anyway
Johnny
Posts: 2,602
Threads: 303
Joined: Feb 2017
(02-25-2018, 11:25 PM)20_Hamilton_18 Wrote: Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Hi 20hami,
I come late to this but have followed its progress I have formed some opinions, as you would expect First of all, by your own critique, you have a rambling habit. I do not think that this is insurmountable because it is always possible to cut a piece of wood shorter and it will still.be wood...cutting it longer is not so easy. Stretching the metaphor...measure twice, cut once. The begged question...why do you ramble in the first place? Irish is neither excuse nor reason. You do not so much lack discipline as misinterpret what it means. OK..what is the old fool on about? Well, knowing your tendencies you have decided to just go along with yourself and now believe that this is what you have decided to do, works...and no other way will work. You have a whole cartload of well observed, fine detail. You can think inside your characters and to a degree, you can make your reader empathetic...so what's not to like? I will tell you...opinion coming. You write stories and with no rhyme nor reason, you cut up the work with no regard for intonation...flow, in another universe...or poetic endeavour. Of course, if the wish to write in poetic form exceeds the desire to tell a fine story you could easily become faux-poetic. Not good, either. So it is a balance, a skill if you like. No one can tell you how to write poetry BUT for me, that word "skill" is indisputably a part, at the very least, of writing poetry. So purely as an experiment, discipline yourself in your work so as to avoid, for example..."When granny died I was...."Try, instead .
I was fifteen when granny died; she was not quite sixty.
Thirteen years back, sometime in May, I can't recall the date or day,
but if you asked her, ma would know.
Guess I couldn't bear to see her, crumpled up like someone sick;
she'd been a great woman, a person of presence up until then.
Instead we played cricket all day.
I am NOT suggesting that this is "better" than what you have written...all I am trying to do is to show you an alternative that reads as if it was disciplined rather than "rambling"
Revision#3
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
that was thirteen years ago come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma she’d know.
Guess I couldn’t bear to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a woman of great presence until then.
Instead, we played cricket that day, me and my pals
while Ma sat with Da and Granda and her sister, my Aunt. Yes...that would be an Aunt. I accept that the narrative IS from the character, but I cannot help thinking that it is you and you don't know how to hide.
Counting down the seconds in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices, ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. A finely felt and pointed observation but just verging on inconsistency with the narrator I thought I knew. I accept the time difference betwixt recall and reiteration but the erudite "...ignorant of the fact..." sits a little awkwardly with the illiteracy of "...me and my pals (played cricket).." Picky? Sure...but measure twice.
Auntie didn’t like Ma and blamed her for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda sat praying. To who?
At this point who cared? So don't punctuate...or do punctuate...or don't punctuate...discipline.
“WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME FROM RIGHT NOW?” Read it....go on, go on, go on, go on....no need for shouty capitals, this isn't facebook
as her hand in his grew colder to the touch,
although she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav... Read it. Discipline
I can’t say why this has come to mind
thirteen years on come May, but I’d wager
eating pears is what does it.
No longer picked from Granny’s tree
but still ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets. ...and yet I STILL like it.
R[i]evision#2[/i]
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind
thirteen years on
come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Revision#1
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree,
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent—
Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
(02-25-2018, 11:25 PM)20_Hamilton_18 Wrote: Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Hi 20hami,
I come late to this but have followed its progress I have formed some opinions, as you would expect First of all, by your own critique, you have a rambling habit. I do not think that this is insurmountable because it is always possible to cut a piece of wood shorter and it will still.be wood...cutting it longer is not so easy. Stretching the metaphor...measure twice, cut once. The begged question...why do you ramble in the first place? Irish is neither excuse nor reason. You do not so much lack discipline as misinterpret what it means. OK..what is the old fool on about? Well, knowing your tendencies you have decided to just go along with yourself and now believe that this is what you have decided to do, works...and no other way will work. You have a whole cartload of well observed, fine detail. You can think inside your characters and to a degree, you can make your reader empathetic...so what's not to like? I will tell you...opinion coming. You write stories and with no rhyme nor reason, you cut up the work with no regard for intonation...flow, in another universe...or poetic endeavour. Of course, if the wish to write in poetic form exceeds the desire to tell a fine story you could easily become faux-poetic. Not good, either. So it is a balance, a skill if you like. No one can tell you how to write poetry BUT for me, that word "skill" is indisputably a part, at the very least, of writing poetry. So purely as an experiment, discipline yourself in your work so as to avoid, for example..."When granny died I was...."Try, instead .
I was fifteen when granny died; she was not quite sixty.
Thirteen years back, sometime in May, I can't recall the date or day,
but if you asked her, ma would know.
Guess I couldn't bear to see her, crumpled up like someone sick;
she'd been a great woman, a person of presence up until then.
Instead we played cricket all day.
I am NOT suggesting that this is "better" than what you have written...all I am trying to do is to show you an alternative that reads as if it was disciplined rather than "rambling"
Revision#3
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
that was thirteen years ago come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma she’d know.
Guess I couldn’t bear to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a woman of great presence until then.
Instead, we played cricket that day, me and my pals
while Ma sat with Da and Granda and her sister, my Aunt. Yes...that would be an Aunt. I accept that the narrative IS from the character, but I cannot help thinking that it is you and you don't know how to hide.
Counting down the seconds in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices, ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. A finely felt and pointed observation but just verging on inconsistency with the narrator I thought I knew. I accept the time difference betwixt recall and reiteration but the erudite "...ignorant of the fact..." sits a little awkwardly with the illiteracy of "...me and my pals (played cricket).." Picky? Sure...but measure twice.
Auntie didn’t like Ma and blamed her for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda sat praying. To who?
At this point who cared? So don't punctuate...or do punctuate...or don't punctuate...discipline.
“WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME FROM RIGHT NOW?” Read it....go on, go on, go on, go on....no need for shouty capitals, this isn't facebook
as her hand in his grew colder to the touch,
although she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav... Read it. Discipline
I can’t say why this has come to mind
thirteen years on come May, but I’d wager
eating pears is what does it.
No longer picked from Granny’s tree
but still ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets. ...and yet I STILL like it.
R[i]evision#2[/i]
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind
thirteen years on
come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Revision#1
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree,
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent—
Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
(02-25-2018, 11:25 PM)20_Hamilton_18 Wrote: Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Hi 20hami,
I come late to this but have followed its progress I have formed some opinions, as you would expect First of all, by your own critique, you have a rambling habit. I do not think that this is insurmountable because it is always possible to cut a piece of wood shorter and it will still.be wood...cutting it longer is not so easy. Stretching the metaphor...measure twice, cut once. The begged question...why do you ramble in the first place? Irish is neither excuse nor reason. You do not so much lack discipline as misinterpret what it means. OK..what is the old fool on about? Well, knowing your tendencies you have decided to just go along with yourself and now believe that this is what you have decided to do, works...and no other way will work. You have a whole cartload of well observed, fine detail. You can think inside your characters and to a degree, you can make your reader empathetic...so what's not to like? I will tell you...opinion coming. You write stories and with no rhyme nor reason, you cut up the work with no regard for intonation...flow, in another universe...or poetic endeavour. Of course, if the wish to write in poetic form exceeds the desire to tell a fine story you could easily become faux-poetic. Not good, either. So it is a balance, a skill if you like. No one can tell you how to write poetry BUT for me, that word "skill" is indisputably a part, at the very least, of writing poetry. So purely as an experiment, discipline yourself in your work so as to avoid, for example..."When granny died I was...."Try, instead .
I was fifteen when granny died; she was not quite sixty.
Thirteen years back, sometime in May, I can't recall the date or day,
but if you asked her, ma would know.
Guess I couldn't bear to see her, crumpled up like someone sick;
she'd been a great woman, a person of presence up until then.
Instead we played cricket all day.
I am NOT suggesting that this is "better" than what you have written...all I am trying to do is to show you an alternative that reads as if it was disciplined rather than "rambling"
Revision#3
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
that was thirteen years ago come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma she’d know.
Guess I couldn’t bear to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a woman of great presence until then.
Instead, we played cricket that day, me and my pals
while Ma sat with Da and Granda and her sister, my Aunt. Yes...that would be an Aunt. I accept that the narrative IS from the character, but I cannot help thinking that it is you and you don't know how to hide.
Counting down the seconds in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices, ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. A finely felt and pointed observation but just verging on inconsistency with the narrator I thought I knew. I accept the time difference betwixt recall and reiteration but the erudite "...ignorant of the fact..." sits a little awkwardly with the illiteracy of "...me and my pals (played cricket).." Picky? Sure...but measure twice.
Auntie didn’t like Ma and blamed her for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda sat praying. To who?
At this point who cared? So don't punctuate...or do punctuate...or don't punctuate...discipline.
“WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME FROM RIGHT NOW?” Read it....go on, go on, go on, go on....no need for shouty capitals, this isn't facebook
as her hand in his grew colder to the touch,
although she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav... Read it. Discipline
I can’t say why this has come to mind
thirteen years on come May, but I’d wager
eating pears is what does it.
No longer picked from Granny’s tree
but still ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets. ...and yet I STILL like it.
R[i]evision#2[/i]
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind
thirteen years on
come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Revision#1
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree,
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent—
Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go.
Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.
While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.
To who?
At this point who cared?
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets
When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.
|
