Row 6

[TrevorConway]

Row 6

[Edit]

Our third plane trip together,
my daughter bends across her seat,
fascinated by fields below,
a stained-glass terrain
of browns, greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6
with black hair and grey streaks like thin cloud.
He’s been watching us with eyes
that seem, to me, glazed in some sad thought.
He could be dreaming of sitting here,
his own daughter by his side.

I imagine he remembers
a love that saw its end in talk
of children and their absence,
of wanting and not wanting, being stuck between.
I want to tell him, Don’t regret
that you’ll never suffer dark moods
from mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.

As if on cue,
my daughter whips up a storm of whining
over a broken pencil.
The food trolley approaches,
and I pay for a pleasant reprieve,
closing my eyes to savour it.

When they open, he’s still there,
casting a glance as she kisses me,
plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.
Be happy with who you are, I tell him,
imagining myself in his seat:
row 6, by the window,
without anyone to attend to.


Row 6

[Original]

Our third plane trip together,

my daughter is fascinated by fields

miles below, a stained-glass patchwork

of various greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6

with black hair and a grey streak like thin cloud.

 

He’s been watching us, his eyes

glazed in naked thought,

dreaming of my daughter

as she sits happily by my side.

Perhaps he sees another, never realised.

 

In his heavy mouth, I see

a love that saw its end in talk

of children and their absence.

Don’t regret, I tell him,

that you’ll never suffer the dark moods

of mangled sleep, nights blent

into mornings and watercolour weeks.

 

He’ll never hear me,

but, as if on cue,

my daughter whips up a storm of whining.

The trolley approaches,

shaped more like an apartment block,

all manner of sweet souls ready to jump off.

 

He watches still

as she kisses me,

plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.

Be happy with who you are, I tell him,

and I imagine myself in his seat:

row 6, by the window,

without anyone to attend to.

 

How sad to imagine,

as I am me,

and my daughter is by my side,

just how it should be.



[I think the last verse should be deleted. What do ye think? Thanks for any feedback ye can give.]

[TranquillityBase]

Our third plane trip together,

my daughter is fascinated by fields

miles below, a stained-glass patchwork

of various greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6

with black hair and a grey streak like thin cloud.  a comma after hair, drop the "and"

 

He’s been watching us, his eyes

glazed in naked thought,

dreaming of my daughter

as she sits happily by my side.

Perhaps he sees another, never realised.

 

In his heavy mouth, I see

a love that saw its end in talk         Really fine lines here

Don’t regret, I tell him,

that you’ll never suffer the dark moods

of mangled sleep, nights blent

into mornings and watercolour weeks.    Though I like these lines, what you might say to him, they would be cold comfort to someone who longed to have a child.  Not sure what you could say instead, but something more to the point, that not all can be blessed with a child.

 

He’ll never hear me,

but, as if on cue,

my daughter whips up a storm of whining.

The trolley approaches,

shaped more like an apartment block,

all manner of sweet souls ready to jump off.       I think these lines don't add much (although it's a humorous aside, that I guess, lightens the mood, if you think you need that)

 

He watches still

as she kisses me,

plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.

Be happy with who you are, I tell him,            Again, I think kind of advice would only deepen his sadness; I'd either drop it, or come up with something more pointed.

and I imagine myself in his seat:

row 6, by the window,

without anyone to attend to.     

 

How sad to imagine,

as I am me,

and my daughter is by my side,

just how it should be.



[I think the last verse should be deleted. What do ye think? Thanks for any feedback ye can give.]   I'd agree the last stanza could be dropped.

Welcome to the Forum Trevor,

A fine poem about an important subject.  Hope my comments re: your silent consolations to the man in row 6 do not seem too presumptuous.  My wife and I went through 5 years of fertility treatments (we were successful in the end), so I have some brief experience with the topic, thus I have strong feelings about the kinds of things people would say to us before we were sucessful.  

Thanks for sharing.

TqB

[rowens]

Our third plane trip together,

my daughter is fascinated by fields

miles below, a stained-glass patchwork

of various greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6

with black hair and a grey streak like thin cloud.

       hair black 

He’s been watching us, His eyes

glazed in naked thought,

dreaming of my daughter

as she sits happily by my side.

Perhaps he sees another, never realised.

                       something

In his heavy mouth, I see

a love that saw its end in talk

of children and their absence.

Don’t regret, I tell him,

that you’ll never suffer the dark moods

of mangled sleep, nights blent

into mornings and watercolour weeks.

 

He’ll never hear me,

but, as if on cue,

my daughter whips up a storm of whining.

The trolley approaches,

shaped more like an apartment block,

all manner of sweet souls ready to jump off.

 

He watches still

as she kisses me,

plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.

Be happy with who you are, I tell him,

and I imagine myself in his seat:

row 6, by the window,

without anyone to attend to.

 

I never was around poets. This might not be the reactions they want. 

[brynmawr1]

Our third plane trip together,

my daughter is fascinated by fields

miles below, a stained-glass patchwork

of various greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6

with black hair and a grey streak like thin cloud.

 

He’s been watching us, his eyes

glazed in naked thought,

dreaming of my daughter     a

as she sits happily by my side.    such as mine

Perhaps he sees another, never realised.

 

In his heavy mouth, I see     no comma

a love that saw its end in talk

of children and their absence.

Don’t regret, I tell him,

that you’ll never suffer the dark moods       These lines need to be more ironic, otherwise it comes across as trite in the face of such struggle.

of mangled sleep, nights blent

into mornings and watercolour weeks.

 

He’ll never hear me,

but, as if on cue,

my daughter whips up a storm of whining.

The trolley approaches,

shaped more like an apartment block,

all manner of sweet souls ready to jump off.

 

He watches still

as she kisses me,

plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.

Be happy with who you are, I tell him,

and I imagine myself in his seat:

row 6, by the window,

without anyone to attend to.

 

How sad to imagine,

as I am me,

and my daughter is by my side,

just how it should be.



[I think the last verse should be deleted. What do ye think? Thanks for any feedback ye can give.]
[/quote]
Hi Trevor,
I agree with the comments of the previous.  I've added some of my own but the main thing I would add is that the poem, while very nice, would be more poignant if the person in row 6 turned out to be the narrator imagining himself as another.  It might better convey the longing/loss of a want-to-be parent and the anguish.  I considered that was your intent but there are too many mixed messages.   That said, I agree the last stanza can go.
Welcome,
bryn

[TrevorConway]

Hi all,

Thanks very much for the feedback on this, as well as the welcome. It seems pretty clear about the last verse needing to go. On another forum, lots of commenters seemed to find that the basic approach (my motivation for the poem) of having the speaker speculate on another's thoughts simply didn't work/wasn't plausible in some way. Do ye agree, or is it an acceptable angle (even if viewed as a conceit or a device) into the poem?

Thanks,

Trevor

[TranquillityBase]

Trevor,

It is a bit of a leap, to assume just from an expression, another person's thoughts.  If perhaps he actually said something to reveal those thoughts?  Or, going with Brynmawr's idea, perhaps it is you thinking how it would be to not have a daughter that you enjoy so much, and to grow old, watching other people who do.

TqB

[rowens]

It's a poem, being plausible doesn't matter. It has its own logic.
Assuming or knowing what the man is thinking or feeling is part of the poem. The poem's dynamic.
What's going on with the I of the poem is one dimension.
The silent communication and assumption on an airplane.





In his heavy mouth, I see

a love that saw its end in talk

of children and their absence.

Don’t regret, I tell him,

that you’ll never suffer the dark moods

of mangled sleep, nights blent

into mornings and watercolour weeks.





He’ll never hear me,
but, as if on cue,
my daughter whips up a storm of whining.
The trolley approaches,
shaped more like an apartment block,
all manner of sweet souls ready to jump off.

He watches still
as she kisses me,
plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.
Be happy with who you are, I tell him,
and I imagine myself in his seat:
row 6, by the window,
without anyone to attend to.

[TrevorConway]

Thanks very much for the follow-ups.

Much obliged,

Trev

[TrevorConway]

Just editing this poem now and reading over yere comments, I've realised that I gave the impression that the man in row 6 wanted a child but couldn't. What I wanted to convey (or at least hint at more than any suggestion of not being able to have a child) was the idea of him choosing not to have a child in the past (with a relationship potentially ending because of this), half-regretting it now, years later, when he sees the speaker and child sitting happily together. 

By the way, can I just ask whether it was clear from the below lines that the speaker didn't literally say this to the man in row 6, or is the clarification ("He'll never hear me") needed?

Don’t regret, I tell him,
that you’ll never suffer the dark moods
of mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.


Thanks a million,

Trev

[TranquillityBase]

Just editing this poem now and reading over yere comments, I've realised that I gave the impression that the man in row 6 wanted a child but couldn't. What I wanted to convey (or at least hint at more than any suggestion of not being able to have a child) was the idea of him choosing not to have a child in the past (with a relationship potentially ending because of this), half-regretting it now, years later, when he sees the speaker and child sitting happily together. 

Rereading those lines:

In his heavy mouth, I see

a love that saw its end in talk

of children and their absence.

I now see what you mean, but it might need to be emphasized a bit more.  "their chosen absence"?  Something like that.
 



By the way, can I just ask whether it was clear from the below lines that the speaker didn't literally say this to the man in row 6, or is the clarification ("He'll never hear me") needed?



Don’t regret, I tell him,

that you’ll never suffer the dark moods

of mangled sleep, nights blent

into mornings and watercolour weeks.





Thanks a million,



Trev

I think "he'll never hear me" would be an excellent addition.  I understood you weren't actually saying it, but I still think the line would add a fine touch to the poem.

[Tiger the Lion]

Just editing this poem now and reading over yere comments, I've realised that I gave the impression that the man in row 6 wanted a child but couldn't. What I wanted to convey (or at least hint at more than any suggestion of not being able to have a child) was the idea of him choosing not to have a child in the past (with a relationship potentially ending because of this), half-regretting it now, years later, when he sees the speaker and child sitting happily together. 

By the way, can I just ask whether it was clear from the below lines that the speaker didn't literally say this to the man in row 6, or is the clarification ("He'll never hear me") needed?

Don’t regret, I tell him,
that you’ll never suffer the dark moods
of mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.


Thanks a million,

Trev

Rereading this, I wonder if "I want to tell him" would work for clarity without much intrusion. Though it may have to be inserted before "Don't regret."

I want to tell him, Don’t regret
that you’ll never suffer the dark moods
of mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.

[TrevorConway]

Thanks very much, TB and Paul. I've re-worked things, taking on some suggestions and deciding against others. I hope it's okay to post it here:

Our third plane trip together,
my daughter bends across her seat,
fascinated by fields below,
a stained-glass terrain
of browns, greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6
with black hair and grey streaks like thin cloud.
He’s been watching us with eyes
that seem, to me, glazed in some sad thought.
He could be dreaming of sitting here,
his own daughter by his side.

I imagine he remembers
a love that saw its end in talk
of children and their absence,
of wanting and not wanting, being stuck between.
I want to tell him, Don’t regret
that you’ll never suffer dark moods
from mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.

As if on cue,
my daughter whips up a storm of whining
over a broken pencil.
The food trolley approaches,
and I pay for a pleasant reprieve,
closing my eyes to savour it.

When they open, he’s still there,
casting a glance as she kisses me,
plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.
Be happy with who you are, I tell him,
imagining myself in his seat:
row 6, by the window,
without anyone to attend to.

[Tiger the Lion]

Thanks very much, TB and Paul. I've re-worked things, taking on some suggestions and deciding against others. I hope it's okay to post it here:

Our third plane trip together,
my daughter bends across her seat,
fascinated by fields below,
a stained-glass terrain
of browns, greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6
with black hair and grey streaks like thin cloud.
He’s been watching us with eyes
that seem, to me, glazed in some sad thought.
He could be dreaming of sitting here,
his own daughter by his side.

I imagine he remembers
a love that saw its end in talk
of children and their absence,
of wanting and not wanting, being stuck between.
I want to tell him, Don’t regret
that you’ll never suffer dark moods
from mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.

As if on cue,
my daughter whips up a storm of whining
over a broken pencil.
The food trolley approaches,
and I pay for a pleasant reprieve,
closing my eyes to savour it.

When they open, he’s still there,
casting a glance as she kisses me,
plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.
Be happy with who you are, I tell him,
imagining myself in his seat:
row 6, by the window,
without anyone to attend to.

Fine to post it any way you'd like. For clarity we generally post edits above the original so members can follow the progress. Something like this...

Row 6 (Edit)

your edited poem


Row 6 (original)

your original poem

[TrevorConway]

Cheers, Paul. Done up top.

Trev

[Miley]

Hello Trevor, thanks for sharing your poem. This one was easy to read and imagine, so easy to critique. I hope some of my comments are useful.

Row 6

[Edit]

Our third plane trip together,
my daughter bends across her seat,
fascinated by stained-glass fields 
below--browns, greens and yellows. 

I'm not sure if my variation is an improvement haha.  I mostly just thought terrain was redundant. I do think your edit is an improvement from the original though... I especially liked fascinated by fields, below... because the simplicity of the line seemed to mirror the simplicity of childhood/childhood wonder. The image of the stained glass field is my favorite in the poem! 


I’m more aware of the man in row 6
with black hair and grey streaks like thin cloud. Nice... clouds stays in the airplane world.
He’s been watching us with eyes Hmmm, not sure about the enjambment here because it leaves me at the end of the line thinking, what else would he be watching with?
that seem, to me, glazed in some sad thought.  I'm glad you got rid of naked thought, read kinda creepy
He could be dreaming of sitting here,
his own daughter by his side. If he dreams hard enough he could create a tulpa.

I’m fascniated by the man in row 6
black hair with grey streaks like thin clouds,
and eyes glazed in sad thought.
He could be dreaming of sitting here,
his own daughter by his side.

I imagine he remembers
a love that saw its end in talk
of children and their absence,
of wanting and not wanting, being stuck between.
I want to tell him, Don’t regret
that you’ll never suffer dark moods
from mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.

This stanza is strange because it seems to be about the guy in row 6, but then I'm more interested in the psychology of the narrator? Its presumptive to assume this guy's situation and with such specificity? Makes me wonder if the narrator is projecting something themselves! I'd be curious what your  intentions are here. 

As if on cue,
my daughter whips up a storm of whining
over a broken pencil.
The food trolley approaches,
and I pay for a pleasant reprieve, I read this is as pray the first time, ha. I like that it can be both. 
closing my eyes to savour it.

When they open, he’s still there,
casting a glance as she kisses me,
plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.
Be happy with who you are, I tell him,
imagining myself in his seat:
row 6, by the window,
without anyone to attend to.

The grass is always greener? I'd resist the urge to make too much meaning of the episode, hence the big cut at the end. Maybe that's more a taste thing than a valid critique? I don't trust a tidy ending! 

[TrevorConway]

Hello Trevor, thanks for sharing your poem. This one was easy to read and imagine, so easy to critique. I hope some of my comments are useful.

Row 6

[Edit]

Our third plane trip together,
my daughter bends across her seat,
fascinated by stained-glass fields 
below--browns, greens and yellows. 

I'm not sure if my variation is an improvement haha.  I mostly just thought terrain was redundant. I do think your edit is an improvement from the original though... I especially liked fascinated by fields, below... because the simplicity of the line seemed to mirror the simplicity of childhood/childhood wonder. The image of the stained glass field is my favorite in the poem! 


I’m more aware of the man in row 6
with black hair and grey streaks like thin cloud. Nice... clouds stays in the airplane world.
He’s been watching us with eyes Hmmm, not sure about the enjambment here because it leaves me at the end of the line thinking, what else would he be watching with?
that seem, to me, glazed in some sad thought.  I'm glad you got rid of naked thought, read kinda creepy
He could be dreaming of sitting here,
his own daughter by his side. If he dreams hard enough he could create a tulpa.

I’m fascniated by the man in row 6
black hair with grey streaks like thin clouds,
and eyes glazed in sad thought.
He could be dreaming of sitting here,
his own daughter by his side.

I imagine he remembers
a love that saw its end in talk
of children and their absence,
of wanting and not wanting, being stuck between.
I want to tell him, Don’t regret
that you’ll never suffer dark moods
from mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.

This stanza is strange because it seems to be about the guy in row 6, but then I'm more interested in the psychology of the narrator? Its presumptive to assume this guy's situation and with such specificity? Makes me wonder if the narrator is projecting something themselves! I'd be curious what your  intentions are here. 

As if on cue,
my daughter whips up a storm of whining
over a broken pencil.
The food trolley approaches,
and I pay for a pleasant reprieve, I read this is as pray the first time, ha. I like that it can be both. 
closing my eyes to savour it.

When they open, he’s still there,
casting a glance as she kisses me,
plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.
Be happy with who you are, I tell him,
imagining myself in his seat:
row 6, by the window,
without anyone to attend to.

The grass is always greener? I'd resist the urge to make too much meaning of the episode, hence the big cut at the end. Maybe that's more a taste thing than a valid critique? I don't trust a tidy ending! 

Thanks for your input, Miley. I have incorporated the stained-glass fields suggestion and dealt with the enjambment of "with eyes". Re the assumptions about the other passenger, I hoped it was implied that the speaker had a similar decision to make in his life, choosing a different path to the man in row 6. Hence, that man represents what could have been. Maybe I should have been blunter about it, but it feels like something that should be implied.

Thanks again,

Trev

[TranquillityBase]

Row 6

[Edit]

Our third plane trip together,
my daughter bends across her seat,
fascinated by fields below,
a stained-glass terrain
of browns, greens and yellows.

I’m more aware of the man in row 6
with black hair and grey streaks like thin cloud.
He’s been watching us with eyes
that seem, to me, glazed in some sad thought.
He could be dreaming of sitting here,    Is he dreaming.......?
his own daughter by his side.

I imagine he remembers
a love that saw its end in talk
of children and their absence,
of wanting and not wanting, being stuck between.
I want to tell him, Don’t regret
that you’ll never suffer dark moods
from mangled sleep, nights blent
into mornings and watercolour weeks.

As if on cue,
my daughter whips up a storm of whining
over a broken pencil.
The food trolley approaches,
and I pay for a pleasant reprieve,
closing my eyes to savour it.

When they open, he’s still there,
casting a glance as she kisses me,
plucking her spoils from a bag of Maltesers.
Be happy with who you are, I tell him,
imagining myself in his seat:
row 6, by the window,
without anyone to attend to.

Trevor,

Nice edit.  Much improvement.  No big complaints.  Couple of tiny suggestions.

TqB

[TrevorConway]

Thanks a million for gettign back, TqB.

Trev