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What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught within a waking
dream. A mind, opened,
by that cutting light,
mysterious; glimpsing
the shadowed edges
of what exists at the seams
of the world.
Left standing alone
before the mirror,
windows unshaded
from whittling eyes that cut
to the heartwood,
penknives too sharp.
Trimmed, shaped, made
beautiful? Bleeding
self in that birthing.
The page red with it;
the gore of darlings
slickening the floor.
What mercy to drown
letting it fill the lungs,
reclaiming it as your own.
To live in that hunger
for your own blood.
Posts: 254
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Joined: Feb 2022
(10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split No a — an em dash would incorporate a split in the writing.
by that cutting light, You already have split and between, use a different descriptor for the light.
mysterious; a glimpse Mysterious could be vaporous or amorphous. These shadows aren't definite.
of shadowed edges, Shadowed edges, like a penumbra, which just has a poetic ring to it.
what exists at the seams
of the world.
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror,
windows unshaded. Open to the world, vulnerable.
Then whittled.
Cutting to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful? This is the best stanza; brutal.
Something reborn.
To bleed
in that birth ing.
To find that thirsting
for your own blood. You don't discover your thirst; it is an immediate realization.
This is a poem I have reworked formerly titled "Critique".
"That" is often used in poetry, like someone is pointing at the subject. I can't see it. Beowulf says "that" between every line, it is tedious. Watch out for that.
This poem needs better descriptive and dramatic wording to have more impact. S5 stands above the others. Don't be afraid to really dig your knuckles into this one, it seems appropriate.
This was a pleasure to critique, there is a lot of potential.
Sc
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Joined: Jan 2021
(10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be I keep wanting to read this as a question: What is it to be....
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split the real?
by that cutting light,
mysterious; a glimpse
of shadowed edges,
what exists at the seams
of the world.
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror,
windows unshaded. beneath a clear sky? open to the world? "windows unshaded" seems too pedestrian for what came before
Then whittled.
Cut to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful? why the question mark?
Something reborn. too vague
To bleed
in that birthing.
To find that hunger
for your own blood.
This is a poem I have reworked formerly titled "Critique".
Bryn,
Gladdened to see a new poem from you. And a very polished one at that, but then yours always are. I think it captures the poetic impulse nicely.
I feel like you need a transition between stanzas 4 and 5. The jump from those first four to the following three seems abrupt, and you essentially have two climaxes as it stands.
Also, I'd revisit the title. "Morning of a Poet"? "Dawn of a Poet"? I would suggest "Blood of a Poet" but that's been used, I think by Lorca, but maybe that doesn't matter.
TqB
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10-03-2022, 09:21 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-03-2022, 09:33 AM by brynmawr1.)
(10-02-2022, 12:03 PM)Semicircle Wrote: (10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split No a — an em dash would incorporate a split in the writing.
by that cutting light, You already have split and between, use a different descriptor for the light.
mysterious; a glimpse Mysterious could be vaporous or amorphous. These shadows aren't definite.
of shadowed edges, Shadowed edges, like a penumbra, which just has a poetic ring to it.
what exists at the seams
of the world.
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror,
windows unshaded. Open to the world, vulnerable.
Then whittled.
Cutting to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful? This is the best stanza; brutal.
Something reborn.
To bleed
in that birth ing.
To find that thirsting
for your own blood. You don't discover your thirst; it is an immediate realization.
This is a poem I have reworked formerly titled "Critique".
"That" is often used in poetry, like someone is pointing at the subject. I can't see it. Beowulf says "that" between every line, it is tedious. Watch out for that.
This poem needs better descriptive and dramatic wording to have more impact. S5 stands above the others. Don't be afraid to really dig your knuckles into this one, it seems appropriate.
This was a pleasure to critique, there is a lot of potential.
Sc Thanks for commenting Sc. I have rewritten the 'dream' stanza which avoids some of your issues. I do like the use of the em dash(didn't know that is what its called). The opening line is really a celebration of existing. It could read 'What is is to be alive' but I let it run into the rest of the sentence. 'Mysterious' just sort of popped in there. I agree I should come up with something better. Regarding the last line, I am trying to convey an unexpected enjoyment of the process, looking forward to or participating in your own perceived destruction. I'll work on it. Thank you for your efforts.
bryn
(10-02-2022, 09:04 PM)TranquillityBase Wrote: (10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be I keep wanting to read this as a question: What is it to be.... Sort of meant to be an exaltation of sorts that could stand alone but I made it part of a larger idea.
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split the real? I have rewritten this stanza which I will post
by that cutting light,
mysterious; a glimpse
of shadowed edges,
what exists at the seams
of the world.
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror,
windows unshaded. beneath a clear sky? open to the world? "windows unshaded" seems too pedestrian for what came before Yes, working on something. And the transition to next stanza.
Then whittled.
Cut to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful? why the question mark? Always that doubt of worth
Something reborn. too vague yes again!
To bleed
in that birthing.
To find that hunger
for your own blood.
This is a poem I have reworked formerly titled "Critique".
Bryn,
Gladdened to see a new poem from you. And a very polished one at that, but then yours always are. I think it captures the poetic impulse nicely.
I feel like you need a transition between stanzas 4 and 5. The jump from those first four to the following three seems abrupt, and you essentially have two climaxes as it stands.
Also, I'd revisit the title. "Morning of a Poet"? "Dawn of a Poet"? I would suggest "Blood of a Poet" but that's been used, I think by Lorca, but maybe that doesn't matter.
TqB Thanks TqB. This poem was several things initially but is becoming a story of birth, destruction and rebirth of a poet. I've made several changes since posting this and will also try to incorporate yours and Sc's suggestions.
Take care,
bryn
Posts: 695
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Hi Steve- I didn't change any words, but subtracted many. (ps. you need a new title):
Born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky.
Caught between dream
and mind split;
a glimpse of what exists
at the seams of the world.
Standing before the mirror,
windows unshaded.
Whittled, cut to heartwood;
made beautiful?
Reborn to bleed; to hunger
for your own blood.
Posts: 1,185
Threads: 250
Joined: Nov 2015
(10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split
by that cutting light,
mysterious; a glimpse
of shadowed edges,
what exists at the seams
of the world.
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror,
windows unshaded.
Then whittled.
Cut to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful?
Something reborn.
To bleed
in that birthing.
To find that hunger
for your own blood.
This is a poem I have reworked formerly titled "Critique".
In moderate critique, my first difficulty is the title. The subject (even the viewpoint character here), it seems to me, is the poem rather than the poet. Hence it is birth by or from rather than of. In the title, though, "Birth From a Poet" doesn't work... perhaps something like "Born From a Poet?"
A small suggestion would be to separate "penknives" into "pen knives" or "pen-knives," suggesting the correcting instruments of pre-digital editors and critics (the expression used in the military of my time, upon seeing a report or communique red-penciled profusely by an instructor or commander, was "he bled all over it").
My other suggestion is to add a stanza suggesting the loss of whole body parts - words, phrases, even (Heaven help us) rhymes, along with more fluid and replaceable blood. Turning a Petrarchan sonnet into free verse, or vice-versa, is a transition that puts humans dissatisfied with their birth sex to shame.
(Now I'll go back and view the other critics' bladework  )
 Non-practicing atheist
Posts: 397
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10-06-2022, 09:47 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-06-2022, 09:57 AM by brynmawr1.)
(10-04-2022, 06:46 AM)Mark A Becker Wrote: Hi Steve- I didn't change any words, but subtracted many. (ps. you need a new title):
Born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky.
Caught between dream
and mind split;
a glimpse of what exists
at the seams of the world.
Standing before the mirror,
windows unshaded.
Whittled, cut to heartwood;
made beautiful?
Reborn to bleed; to hunger
for your own blood. Hi Mark,
Thanks for the 'penknifing'! I always appreciate your read on what you find most impactful. Yes, the title seems to be a common sticking point. Work in progress.
Take care,
bryn
(10-05-2022, 06:51 AM)dukealien Wrote: (10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split
by that cutting light,
mysterious; a glimpse
of shadowed edges,
what exists at the seams
of the world.
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror,
windows unshaded.
Then whittled.
Cut to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful?
Something reborn.
To bleed
in that birthing.
To find that hunger
for your own blood.
This is a poem I have reworked formerly titled "Critique".
In moderate critique, my first difficulty is the title. The subject (even the viewpoint character here), it seems to me, is the poem rather than the poet. Hence it is birth by or from rather than of. In the title, though, "Birth From a Poet" doesn't work... perhaps something like "Born From a Poet?"
A small suggestion would be to separate "penknives" into "pen knives" or "pen-knives," suggesting the correcting instruments of pre-digital editors and critics (the expression used in the military of my time, upon seeing a report or communique red-penciled profusely by an instructor or commander, was "he bled all over it").
My other suggestion is to add a stanza suggesting the loss of whole body parts - words, phrases, even (Heaven help us) rhymes, along with more fluid and replaceable blood. Turning a Petrarchan sonnet into free verse, or vice-versa, is a transition that puts humans dissatisfied with their birth sex to shame.
(Now I'll go back and view the other critics' bladework ) Hi Duke,
Thank you for reading and offering your insight. The title seems to be a common issue. Will work on that. I have been toying with a dissection type stanza. My sticking point is transitioning from 'whittling' to amputation. I do like your editing story of the 'bled all over it' image. My current issue is trying to blend the origin story of me starting to write poetry with the actual writing of poetry while blurring the line between poet and poem in the critiquing process. Forum aside, any further insight is appreciated.
take care,
bryn
Posts: 397
Threads: 58
Joined: May 2022
Posts: 894
Threads: 176
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(10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught within a waking
dream. A mind, opened,
by that cutting light,
mysterious; glimpsing
the shadowed edges
of what exists at the seams
of the world.
Left standing alone
before the mirror,
windows unshaded
from whittling eyes that cut
to the heartwood,
penknives too sharp. so sharp? too sharp implies a relectance to cut that doesn't seem to be in the character of this poet
Trimmed, shaped, made
beautiful? Bleeding
self in that birthing.
The page red with it;
the gore of darlings
slickening the floor. my favorite lines
What mercy to drown
letting it fill the lungs,
reclaiming it as your own.
To live in that hunger
for your own blood.
A couple of minor suggestions. A really excellent edit and a memorable poem. I still think Blood of a Poet would make a good title, even though it's been used before (by Cocteau, not Lorca).
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Hi Bryn,
I really enjoy the edits you've made so far, especially the newly added stanzas since the first draft. Once you've reworked the title, I think the opening stanza could be modified in turn. I'll pull from Stephen Dobyns', "Next Word, Better Word," here: "...nothing can be built up unless the very first words of the poem affect the break with the reader's actual environment..." I think the rose dusted sky is a beautiful image, but the way it is introduced feels simply like a musing that doesn't drive me to read further. Glad I did, though. Thanks for posting!
"What I want in poetry is a kind of abstract photography of the nerves, but what I like in photography is the poetry of literal pictures of the neighborhood." -John Koethe
Posts: 397
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10-15-2022, 03:44 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-15-2022, 03:53 AM by brynmawr1.)
(10-12-2022, 03:37 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote: (10-02-2022, 10:32 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
caught within a waking
dream. A mind, opened,
by that cutting light,
mysterious; glimpsing
the shadowed edges
of what exists at the seams
of the world.
Left standing alone
before the mirror,
windows unshaded
from whittling eyes that cut
to the heartwood,
penknives too sharp. so sharp? too sharp implies a relectance to cut that doesn't seem to be in the character of this poet
Trimmed, shaped, made
beautiful? Bleeding
self in that birthing.
The page red with it;
the gore of darlings
slickening the floor. my favorite lines
What mercy to drown
letting it fill the lungs,
reclaiming it as your own.
To live in that hunger
for your own blood.
A couple of minor suggestions. A really excellent edit and a memorable poem. I still think Blood of a Poet would make a good title, even though it's been used before (by Cocteau, not Lorca).
Thanks TqB. I looked up Cocteau, interesting. Maybe the title can be "After Cocteau"? Sort of kidding, maybe. Now I feel like I need to rework the first half. This whole process is very ironic!
bryn
(10-15-2022, 03:18 AM)ZHamilton Wrote: Hi Bryn,
I really enjoy the edits you've made so far, especially the newly added stanzas since the first draft. Once you've reworked the title, I think the opening stanza could be modified in turn. I'll pull from Stephen Dobyns', "Next Word, Better Word," here: "...nothing can be built up unless the very first words of the poem affect the break with the reader's actual environment..." I think the rose dusted sky is a beautiful image, but the way it is introduced feels simply like a musing that doesn't drive me to read further. Glad I did, though. Thanks for posting!
Hi Z,
thanks for posting. I agree that the first stanza could be better and align better with second half. Your perception about the sky image is right on. Someone pointed out that being born with the dawn is cliche so I used my mystical powers of poetic sorcery to transform the image, but you have seen through my ruse. More darlings for the floor!
Take care,
bryn
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(10-15-2022, 03:44 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: Now I feel like I need to rework the first half. This whole process is very ironic!
Well, maybe the first 4 1/2 lines. But starting with "A mind....", well, I'd hate to see anything go away.
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(10-15-2022, 08:42 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote: (10-15-2022, 03:44 AM)brynmawr1 Wrote: Now I feel like I need to rework the first half. This whole process is very ironic!
Well, maybe the first 4 1/2 lines. But starting with "A mind....", well, I'd hate to see anything go away.
Yes, I've gone though the stages of grief and ready to let go? We'll see what comes next.
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