he murmured. His bones scratched like lottery tickets
burned exactly the same
(you're on fire and you don't know it)
She wanted to enlighten him, but her words would blow
his away
"南京 is a city where people go to laugh."
No,
she hadn't known. He laughed like he couldn't
stand the world- not all the way-
not the parts that needed to be- so he hoarded
the bits of himself
that really mattered
when it came
down to
it
Even as his lips wilted against the hollow
of her collarbone, his dialect came to life.
"纽约市, love," lush emotion inflected into a voice
inflamed by strong sunlight,
"people go to die there. Whether they know it
or not." They looked out to the world
and knew different things
He talked to his motherland to death. Wove through its smoke
and its gruel with rich feeling, grief seen but not heard,
flowers thrown curbside, flushed dark, damp, with shame.
Somehow, he never drank. The stars fell upon her instead
They were both dark-haired, dark-eyed, careless, brusque,
obsessively so, lines around their disheveled characters inked with clarity,
precision, stunning; both best when apart, focused upon
their art, the brush themselves, the picture their personalities;
is what she craved to confess, but the world wouldn't hear it
(and yet
and still
they couldn't forgive each other for the fact
that the stars in her eyes
the stars in her hands
the stars in the ends of her hair
in her dreams
had all originally belonged to
him)
original.
against silky, sun-slashed hair
"Do you know?" was murmured. voice skin-deep,
diaphanous; get a grip and stay
still. his bones scratch like lottery tickets,
burn exactly the same
"南京is a city where people go to laugh."
no,
she hadn't known. he laughed like someone
who couldn't stand the world- not all the way-
not the parts that needed to be- so he hoarded
the bits of himself
that really mattered
his language came to life even as his lips
wilted against the side of her head.
"纽约市, love,"
his words inflamed by strong sunlight,
"people go to die there. Whether they know it
or not." they both looked out to the world,
knowing different things
he talked his home to death. cut through its smoke
and its gruel with disposable razors, grief seen but not heard,
flowers thrown curbside, flushed dark with damp.
somehow, he never drank. a habit that skipped
generations, it was concluded. the stars fell upon her
they were both dark-haired, dark-eyed, the careless sort of dark, brusque,
obsessive, the lines around their characters inked with clarity,
precision, stunning; they were both best when apart, focused upon
their art, the brush themselves, the picture their personalities
These people can't talk well, or aren't. There's a guardedness or an awkwardness that has all the valuable things they try to say sound fragmented. That's obvious to the point of there being no need to mention it. Maybe they like it that way. I don't know what you could do to it to make the form more interesting. Since they're artists, the images break in better than the comments, the adjectives are arty and seen but not heard. Their thinking fragmented and their talking. Too other to come together. So you've presented a clear picture here, at least as I read it. It just lacks a certain energy or formal thread of interest. Maybe the lack of formal ingenuity is enough here.
(06-21-2018, 06:25 AM)nozaki Wrote: against silky, sun-slashed hair
"Do you know?" was murmured. voice skin-deep, The passive voice here bothers me a bit.
diaphanous; get a grip and stay
still. his bones scratch like lottery tickets,
burn exactly the same This image has so many layers. These two lines are a roller coaster in a good way. "Bones scratch " is a jarring pair of words but the "lottery tickets" gave a lighthearted, hopeful feel until the burning image came in. It creates an enticing mystery around the character.
"南京is a city where people go to laugh."
no,
she hadn't known. he laughed like someone
who couldn't stand the world- not all the way-
not the parts that needed to be- so he hoarded
the bits of himself
that really mattered
his language came to life even as his lips
wilted against the side of her head.
"纽约市, love,"
his words inflamed by strong sunlight,
"people go to die there. Whether they know it
or not." they both looked out to the world,
knowing different things
he talked his home to death. cut through its smoke
and its gruel with disposable razors, grief seen but not heard, This is where the poem really hooked me and I wanted to reread to understand the male character better. It's an excellent description of a person missing and grieving for a place.
flowers thrown curbside, flushed dark with damp.
somehow, he never drank. a habit that skipped
generations, it was concluded. the stars fell upon her
they were both dark-haired, dark-eyed, the careless sort of dark, brusque,
obsessive, the lines around their characters inked with clarity, I can't really wrap my head around people who are careless, brusque and obsessive. Someone might be careless about some things and obsessive about other things, but as general descriptors those qualities oppose one another.
precision, stunning; they were both best when apart, focused upon
their art, the brush themselves, the picture their personalities I think the last line is the weakest of the whole poem. It just... lays too much out there. The poem would end better on the word "apart".
This is my first critique. I hope I have done your poem some justice because I think it is very well done. The thing I am questioning about the poem overall is the character focus. The whole poem seems to be about the male character. He is very interesting with his personality and situation laid out in vivid detail. We know very little about the female character except that "the stars fell upon her" -this phrase is ambiguous to me. That would be fine, except that the last stanza switches the subject to the two of them as a couple, or un-couple as it were. I think you should either add some detail to her character earlier in the poem or really rework the last stanza with the focus still on the male character.
(06-21-2018, 06:25 AM)nozaki Wrote: against silky, sun-slashed hair
"Do you know?" was murmured. voice skin-deep,
diaphanous; get a grip and stay
still. his bones scratch like lottery tickets,
burn exactly the same
"南京is a city where people go to laugh."
no,
she hadn't known. he laughed like someone
who couldn't stand the world- not all the way-
not the parts that needed to be- so he hoarded
the bits of himself
that really mattered
his language came to life even as his lips
wilted against the side of her head.
"纽约市, love,"
his words inflamed by strong sunlight,
"people go to die there. Whether they know it
or not." they both looked out to the world,
knowing different things
he talked his home to death. cut through its smoke
and its gruel with disposable razors, grief seen but not heard,
flowers thrown curbside, flushed dark with damp.
somehow, he never drank. a habit that skipped
generations, it was concluded. the stars fell upon her
they were both dark-haired, dark-eyed, the careless sort of dark, brusque,
obsessive, the lines around their characters inked with clarity,
precision, stunning; they were both best when apart, focused upon
their art, the brush themselves, the picture their personalities
I find many contradictions in this,
Wilting lips but inflamed words coming out of them.
Laughing and an attitude of dislike
Careless, obsessive then clarity
Dark damp with a lot of sun references
and more of the same throughout.
The whole thing seems overly self indulgent, a writer trying to hard to impress.
Question is impress who or whom?
@rowan astute observations, it's appreciated. it's difficult, as you say, to try and create energy in a piece that is for all intents and purposes, descriptive, but i will try
@acappella thank you for alerting me to the adjectives, i really got carried away. as for the character focus, i think i have balanced it a bit better but who knows?
@homer rather than contradictions i was going for an overall atmosphere of imbalance, but i must've struck wrong. and you are indeed right about the self indulgence- this entire piece began as an exercise in fanciful imagination, for better or for worse. as for impressions, i would like to think that i write for no one in particular (but maybe myself) and for no particular reason.
I like the idea of fire and light. The subtle, possibly unintentional, possibly serious, jest or figure of her wanting to enlighten him. He, maybe, who's on fire. She, worried her words would blow his, or him, away, or maybe out. The enflaming and smoke and burning heavenly bodies carry throughout the poem. Yet it's, and at the heart of the poem, all art and artfully calculating.
