For Lillian 1914-2000 I. The thicket dark and brambled memories flitting branch to branch, offering scant glimpses, precious faint calls of bird song logged and recorded. But you, you caught among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley blooming sweet sprays of white bells ringing round the hillside behind your house on Martha Washington; those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down and down again playing octopus with Grandpa always lit by his blazing holiday fire; the child’s thrill wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you did I see so carefree, your song you sang quietly from the small corners in the background of memory, I imagine sitting at the pink Formica table in the kitchen talking, just us two, your Lauren Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. But where was I other than lost in the full-time job of just being young. III. It could’ve been the light of early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is short in that bright hospice room I held your hand not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustled tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath; wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate as bird bones, skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years held us to the end.
Your Hand I Remember For Lillian 1914-2000
I. The thicket dark and brambled memories flitting branch to branch, offering scant glimpses, precious faint calls of bird song logged and recorded. But you, you caught among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley blooming sweet sprays of white bells your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you did I glimpse so carefree, your song sung quietly in the background of memory, I imagine sitting at your pink Formica table in the kitchen talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. III. It could’ve been the light of early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is short in that bright hospice room when I held your hand not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath, wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate as bird bones, skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years held such heat, your last glowing ember of yesterday’s fire.
I.
The past a thicket dark and brambled. Memories flit branch to branch, offering treasured glimpses, precious song bird’s faint calls logged and recorded. But you, you caught in the thicket, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you glimpsed carefree, song sung quietly rarely heard in memory, I imagine sitting in the kitchen at your pink Formica table talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. III. It could’ve been the light of an early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is late when I held your hand in the bright hospice room not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath all wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate, bird-boned skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years, held such heat, a glowing ember of yesterday’s fire.
The past a thicket dark and brambled. Memories flit branch "memories" tells us the past is the thicket you are referring to to branch, offering treasured glimpses, bright? precious song bird’s faint calls logged and recorded. poem enters alternate realm at this line But you, you caught in the thicket, what can I hope to remember of you? great intro to what follows II. Lily of the valley your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; great visiuals here a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never youthis threw me a bit, you're saying you rarely saw her, except as below? glimpsed carefree, song sung quietly rarely heard in memory, I imagine sitting in the kitchen at your pink Formica table talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. another great description, so many fine details, last line is a little tricky. III. It could’ve been the light of an early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is late when. vagueness of time leading up to another run of great imagery gives reader a break I held your hand in the bright hospice room not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath all wishing against wishing great use of echo here each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate, bird-boned skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years, held such heat, a glowing ember of yesterday’s fire. Whisper fine ending
Hi Bryn,
This shows signs of previous endless polishing, so, for now, (I may be back), these are my comments. I liked the way the poem ebbs and flows, as one quiet moment is followed by a dense section of lines of movement and action. One of the best elegies I've seen.
One suggestiion about a different title: "Your Hand I Remember".
The past a thicket dark and brambled. Memories flit branch "memories" tells us the past is the thicket you are referring to Good point. to branch, offering treasured glimpses, bright? not sure that's right either. I'll have to ponder. precious song bird’s faint calls logged and recorded. poem enters alternate realm at this line Is this good or bad? I might reword those last lines a bit in light of your previous suggestions. More pondering. But you, you caught in the thicket, what can I hope to remember of you? great intro to what follows Glad you liked this part. Was very close to cutting it at the last minute. II. Lily of the valley your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; great visiuals here a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never youthis threw me a bit, you're saying you rarely saw her, except as below? Yes, thinking back she was always in the background. I left out some details about how my recollections are more about what she did(the food, her collection of Hummels) rather than actually interacting with her. glimpsed carefree, song sung quietly rarely heard in memory, I imagine sitting in the kitchen at your pink Formica table talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. another great description, so many fine details, last line is a little tricky. Yeah, I tend to do that. Yet more pondering. III. It could’ve been the light of an early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is late when. vagueness of time leading up to another run of great imagery gives reader a break I just noticed there is a period, oops. I held your hand in the bright hospice room not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath all wishing against wishing great use of echo here each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate, bird-boned skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years, held such heat, a glowing ember of yesterday’s fire. Whisper fine ending Thanks.This isn't where I was going to end it, just happened that way.
Hi Bryn,
This shows signs of previous endless polishing, so, for now, (I may be back), these are my comments. I liked the way the poem ebbs and flows, as one quiet moment is followed by a dense section of lines of movement and action. One of the best elegies I've seen.
One suggestiion about a different title: "Your Hand I Remember".
TqB
Hi TqB,
And fine comments they are. Too endlessly polished, perhaps? Not so much on paper, but for a long time in my head until I finally made myself write it down. Getting over a mild case of Covid gave me some extra hours to fill; writing and making bread.
Titles! Useless in my hands. The one I used kind of a place holder. I do like your suggestion.
The past a thicket dark and brambled. Memories flit branch "memories" tells us the past is the thicket you are referring to Good point. to branch, offering treasured glimpses, bright? not sure that's right either. I'll have to ponder. precious song bird’s faint calls logged and recorded. poem enters alternate realm at this line Is this good or bad? I might reword those last lines a bit in light of your previous suggestions. More pondering. But you, you caught in the thicket, what can I hope to remember of you? great intro to what follows Glad you liked this part. Was very close to cutting it at the last minute. II. Lily of the valley your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; great visiuals here a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never youthis threw me a bit, you're saying you rarely saw her, except as below? Yes, thinking back she was always in the background. I left out some details about how my recollections are more about what she did(the food, her collection of Hummels) rather than actually interacting with her. glimpsed carefree, song sung quietly rarely heard in memory, I imagine sitting in the kitchen at your pink Formica table talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. another great description, so many fine details, last line is a little tricky. Yeah, I tend to do that. Yet more pondering. III. It could’ve been the light of an early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is late when. vagueness of time leading up to another run of great imagery gives reader a break I just noticed there is a period, oops. I held your hand in the bright hospice room not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath all wishing against wishing great use of echo here each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate, bird-boned skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years, held such heat, a glowing ember of yesterday’s fire. Whisper fine ending Thanks.This isn't where I was going to end it, just happened that way.
Hi Bryn,
This shows signs of previous endless polishing, so, for now, (I may be back), these are my comments. I liked the way the poem ebbs and flows, as one quiet moment is followed by a dense section of lines of movement and action. One of the best elegies I've seen.
One suggestiion about a different title: "Your Hand I Remember".
TqB
Hi TqB,
And fine comments they are. Too endlessly polished, perhaps? Not so much on paper, but for a long time in my head until I finally made myself write it down. Getting over a mild case of Covid gave me some extra hours to fill; writing and making bread.
Titles! Useless in my hands. The one I used kind of a place holder. I do like your suggestion.
Thanks for your critique and kind words,
bryn
"alternate realm", yes good, pointed to a an unusual viewpoint. The "problem lines" are also some of the most interesting, so cut finely.
I like the idea of a memory as a bird in a thicket, dimly seen and elusive (and I think you lose some of that in the revision.) Also, I'm not keen on the rhetorical question, but if you were looking for a long-ish title then Among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you?
would be my suggestion.
I think you could lose the 'blazing living room fire' (II) and the 'glowing ember' (III) - they feel like one image too many.
And how many 'glimpses' does one poem need?
If you're set on numbering, then I think you should really embrace it. So ... some passing thoughts/suggestions.
I
The past a dark
and brambled thicket.
Memories flit
branch to branch;
II
Lily of the valley ringing
sweet sprays of white bells
... (Seems like this needs a location, that it is her favourite flower could be inferred. I like how it builds on the 'thicket'/woodland landscape.)
III
your house on Martha Washington
stairs the height of Everest
me and the cousins tumbling down and down again
playing octopus,
Grandpa grasping for us
a child’s thrill of wishing
against wishing to be caught.
IV
But never you
did I glimpse so carefree, your song sung quietly
in the background of memory, (maybe a little bit more here? And 'did I glimpse' rings the wrong note, But I never saw you so carefree / heard you sing so quietly ...)
V
I imagine
sitting at your pink Formica table (not sure you need the 'your' given 'your house' earlier.)
in the kitchen talking, just us two,
your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, .................................. (Spellling - Lauren)
the curl off your cigarette, hanging (do cigarettes curl?)
on every missing word never heard from you to know you.
VI
It could’ve been the light
of an early fall
or the height of summer
not letting on that time
is late
VII
comforted by the quiet
bustle of soft shoed nurses.
Quick to smile,
they hustle tucking (not sure about 'hustle', could something be rustling?)
blankets and tending pumps
and morphine drips to the regular
rhythm of ragged breath all (Might just be me but ... 'regular rhythm' and 'ragged' seem contradictory)
wishing against wishing
each is your last.
VIII
whisper soft skin
spotted and thinned
Your hand I remember
bird-boned, and flown.
.... (for me, I'd have liked a return to the 'thicket', bird-boned took me back to I, and something 'flitting branch to branch.)
I like the idea of a memory as a bird in a thicket, dimly seen and elusive (and I think you lose some of that in the revision.) Also, I'm not keen on the rhetorical question, but if you were looking for a long-ish title then Among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you?
would be my suggestion.
I think you could lose the 'blazing living room fire' (II) and the 'glowing ember' (III) - they feel like one image too many. Hmmm...glowing ember might be painful. Been carrying that around in my head for awhile. Finally got to use it. Ponder, ponder...
And how many 'glimpses' does one poem need?
If you're set on numbering, Not really. I did it to break the poem into it's distinct phases partly to head off people wanting to blend them together too much, if that makes sense.
I
The past a dark
and brambled thicket.
Memories flit
branch to branch;
II
Lily of the valley ringing
sweet sprays of white bells
... (Seems like this needs a location, that it is her favourite flower could be inferred. I like how it builds on the 'thicket'/woodland landscape.) I know just the spot.
III
your house on Martha Washington
stairs the height of Everest
me and the cousins tumbling down and down again
playing octopus,
Grandpa grasping for us I don't know. without the bucolic location it comes across a little creepy, no?
a child’s thrill of wishing
against wishing to be caught.
IV
But never you
did I glimpse so carefree, your song sung quietly
in the background of memory, (maybe a little bit more here? And 'did I glimpse' rings the wrong note, But I never saw you so carefree / heard you sing so quietly ...)
V
I imagine
sitting at your pink Formica table (not sure you need the 'your' given 'your house' earlier.) Good point
in the kitchen talking, just us two,
your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, .................................. (Spellling - Lauren) thanks. I looked up the last name, guess I needed both
the curl off your cigarette, hanging (do cigarettes curl?) no image of the smoke curling off the tip of the cigarette?
on every missing word never heard from you to know you.
VI
It could’ve been the light
of an early fall
or the height of summer
not letting on that time
is late
VII
comforted by the quiet
bustle of soft shoed nurses.
Quick to smile,
they hustle tucking (not sure about 'hustle', could something be rustling?) Pondering
blankets and tending pumps
and morphine drips to the regular
rhythm of ragged breath all (Might just be me but ... 'regular rhythm' and 'ragged' seem contradictory) first part tempo, 'ragged' more sound. How about 'rattled'
wishing against wishing
each is your last.
VIII
whisper soft skin
spotted and thinned
Your hand I remember
bird-boned, and flown.
.... (for me, I'd have liked a return to the 'thicket', bird-boned took me back to I, and something 'flitting branch to branch.) Yes, I will work on that. My very earliest ending had that never made it onto paper had that element.
Best, Knot
.
Hi Knot,
Thanks for all your great comments. Regarding the numbers, I guess I'm not sure why some poems are numbered or not. As I explained above, it just sort of felt like they should be numbered. Not sure doing all the stanzas works. You've given me a lot to consider.
Thanks again,
bryn
numbering, Not really. I did it to break the poem into it's distinct phases partly to head off people wanting to blend them together too much, if that makes sense. It does, but you've already set up the idea of 'flitting' so you could probably do without the numbers entirely.
I don't know. without the bucolic location it comes across a little creepy, no? Even with. What about cutting the line entirely?
your house on Martha Washington
stairs the height of Everest
how me and the cousins we tumbled
again and again playing
octopus, a child’s thrill of wishing
against wishing to be caught.
no image of the smoke curling off the tip of the cigarette? I think, perhaps, the problem (for me) is having 'hanging' on the same line.
first part tempo, 'ragged' more sound. Yeah, I just didn't think it worked that well. How about 'rattled' Not keen. Is there any alternative to 'breath' at all? Just a thought ...
The bustle of soft shoed nurses.
Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps pillows plumped. Comforting. And all the while the morphine drips to a regular rhythm. And I/we wait, wishing against wishing, each dropwere your last.
(12-07-2023, 11:52 PM)brynmawr1 Wrote: Your Hand I Remember For Lillian 1914-2000
I. The thicket dark and brambled I wonder if you need "the" and "and"? memories flitting branch to branch, offering scant glimpses, precious faint calls of bird song logged and recorded. This is a great opening. But you, you caught among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley blooming sweet sprays of white bells Lovely your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled No need for "we"? again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you Great line break. did I glimpse so carefree, your song sung quietly in the background of memory, I imagine sitting at your pink Formica table in the kitchen talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. I think the first four lines here are perfect, not so sure about the last two. Further edit: Maybe this line should be "heard for me to know"? III. It could’ve been the light of early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is short in that bright hospice room when I held your hand not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath, wishing against wishing each is your last. Great stuff. Your hand I remember delicate as bird bones, Fantastic image. skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years held such heat, your last "by years held such heat" - I think that could be improved. glowing ember of yesterday’s fire. "of yesterday's fire" - I think doesn't add anything - it is already implied by being the last glowing ember.
I.
The past a thicket dark and brambled. Memories flit branch to branch, offering treasured glimpses, precious song bird’s faint calls logged and recorded. But you, you caught in the thicket, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you glimpsed carefree, song sung quietly rarely heard in memory, I imagine sitting in the kitchen at your pink Formica table talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. III. It could’ve been the light of an early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is late when I held your hand in the bright hospice room not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath all wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate, bird-boned skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years, held such heat, a glowing ember of yesterday’s fire.
Hey Bryn, I like this one a lot, lots of good stuff here.
Thanks again to TqB, Knot and Wjames for your continued comments. I have been traveling and haven't had time to respond appropriately. Will return soon.
(12-07-2023, 11:52 PM)brynmawr1 Wrote: Your Hand I Remember For Lillian 1914-2000
I. The thicket dark and brambled memories flitting branch to branch, offering scant glimpses, precious faint calls of bird song logged and recorded. But you, you caught among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley blooming sweet sprays of white bells your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you did I glimpse so carefree, your song sung quietly in the background of memory, I imagine sitting at your pink Formica table in the kitchen talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. III. It could’ve been the light of early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is short in that bright hospice room when I held your hand not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath, wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate as bird bones, skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years held such heat, your last glowing ember of yesterday’s fire.
I.
The past a thicket dark and brambled. Memories flit branch to branch, offering treasured glimpses, precious song bird’s faint calls logged and recorded. But you, you caught in the thicket, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley your favorite flower remember your house on Martha Washington those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down again and again playing octopus, Grandpa grasping for us before the blazing living room fire; a child’s thrill of wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you glimpsed carefree, song sung quietly rarely heard in memory, I imagine sitting in the kitchen at your pink Formica table talking, just us two, your Lauran Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. III. It could’ve been the light of an early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is late when I held your hand in the bright hospice room not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustle tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath all wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate, bird-boned skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years, held such heat, a glowing ember of yesterday’s fire.
Hi,
I read this poem, I think it was the day after you posted it, and I absolutely loved its potential. There was so much to like.
I am still very new at this critique stuff, and felt called to sit on my thoughts for a couple of days or so.
I had especially loved the hospice room description. Perfectly captured and described with wonderful brevity.
I loved the opening concept of the thicket and the flitting, but it wasn't quite there ... yet. However, it is now IMO.
I love the phrase "wishing against wishing", and your repetition of it.
I originally thought after reading your first version here, that your multiple uses of the words memory/memories/glimpses were redundant ... for the title itself declares the idea. But now, reading this version, I don't at all feel that way. I believe that the change for me is a combination of the editing that has been done and my own deeper understanding of this poem.
A couple of other thoughts that I had had were:
1) to describe some earlier "moments" with her hand, so that at the end it cements that your most vivid memories are anchored by the feel or sight of her hand. Perhaps, walking with her as a young child hand-in-hand for instance.
2) you have 2 references to fire. The blazing living room fire, and the glowing ember at the end. (beautiful ending by the way). And I thought that perhaps the scene with her smoking could be expanded to include both references to her hand and to the glow of her cigarette.
I do not now think that those are at all needed.
My last possible change suggestion would have been to the line, "hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you". I did not get that originally. It is a difficult line, BUT, I would not change it. I get it now, and I love the complexity of the thought. It is certainly OK, and even excellent, to use phrases or words that do not at first present clarity. Everything does not have to be easy for the reader, and I appreciate that you did this.
When I read the poem this morning as it now stands, I was somewhat in awe of the work you have done with others here to perfect it. I really liked it originally, but knew that it wasn't there yet. However, it is now a thing of beauty IMO. A wonderful tribute to Lillian. Thanks for sharing it.
I read this poem, I think it was the day after you posted it, and I absolutely loved its potential. There was so much to like.
I am still very new at this critique stuff, and felt called to sit on my thoughts for a couple of days or so.
I had especially loved the hospice room description. Perfectly captured and described with wonderful brevity.
I loved the opening concept of the thicket and the flitting, but it wasn't quite there ... yet. However, it is now IMO.
I love the phrase "wishing against wishing", and your repetition of it.
I originally thought after reading your first version here, that your multiple uses of the words memory/memories/glimpses were redundant ... for the title itself declares the idea. But now, reading this version, I don't at all feel that way. I believe that the change for me is a combination of the editing that has been done and my own deeper understanding of this poem.
A couple of other thoughts that I had had were:
1) to describe some earlier "moments" with her hand, so that at the end it cements that your most vivid memories are anchored by the feel or sight of her hand. Perhaps, walking with her as a young child hand-in-hand for instance.
2) you have 2 references to fire. The blazing living room fire, and the glowing ember at the end. (beautiful ending by the way). And I thought that perhaps the scene with her smoking could be expanded to include both references to her hand and to the glow of her cigarette.
I do not now think that those are at all needed.
My last possible change suggestion would have been to the line, "hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you". I did not get that originally. It is a difficult line, BUT, I would not change it. I get it now, and I love the complexity of the thought. It is certainly OK, and even excellent, to use phrases or words that do not at first present clarity. Everything does not have to be easy for the reader, and I appreciate that you did this.
When I read the poem this morning as it now stands, I was somewhat in awe of the work you have done with others here to perfect it. I really liked it originally, but knew that it wasn't there yet. However, it is now a thing of beauty IMO. A wonderful tribute to Lillian. Thanks for sharing it.
[/quote]
Hi CW,
Thank you for your thoughtful comments. I, too, often take several days and re-readings before I can gather my thoughts to comment on a poem. I'm not sure they are helpful in the end, but all we can do is try. I am still considering the additional comments made so far, including yours. Hopefully I will get some time to really sit down and go over it again soon. I am glad you have enjoyed what I have done so far.
Take care,
Bryn
(12-07-2023, 11:52 PM)brynmawr1 Wrote: Your Hand I Remember
For Lillian 1914-2000 I. The thicket dark and brambled memories flitting branch to branch, offering scant glimpses, precious faint calls of bird song logged and recorded. But you, you caught among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley blooming sweet sprays of white bells ringing round the hillside behind your house on Martha Washington; those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down and down again playing octopus with Grandpa always lit by his blazing holiday fire; the child’s thrill I prefer the original phrasing, with "Grandpa grasping"; "lit by his blazing fire" is awkard sounding to me wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you did I see so carefree, your song you sang quietly from the small corners in the background of memory, I imagine sitting at the pink Formica table in the kitchen talking, just us two, your Lauren Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. But I still trip over this and am not sure what you are meaning where was I other than lost in the full-time job of just being young. III. It could’ve been the light of early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is short in that bright hospice room I held your hand not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustled tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath; wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate as bird bones, skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years held us to the end.
Good job editing. I reread the original just for comparison and you've definitely tightened it up and ending is fine.
(12-07-2023, 11:52 PM)brynmawr1 Wrote: Your Hand I Remember
For Lillian 1914-2000 I. The thicket dark and brambled memories flitting branch to branch, offering scant glimpses, precious faint calls of bird song logged and recorded. But you, you caught among thorns, what can I hope to remember of you? II. Lily of the valley blooming sweet sprays of white bells ringing round the hillside behind your house on Martha Washington; those stairs the height of Everest how me and the cousins we tumbled down and down again playing octopus with Grandpa always lit by his blazing holiday fire; the child’s thrill I prefer the original phrasing, with "Grandpa grasping"; "lit by his blazing fire" is awkard sounding to me wishing against wishing to be caught. But never you did I see so carefree, your song you sang quietly from the small corners in the background of memory, I imagine sitting at the pink Formica table in the kitchen talking, just us two, your Lauren Bacall gapped grin, the curl off your cigarette, hanging on every missing word never heard from you to know you. But I still trip over this and am not sure what you are meaning where was I other than lost in the full-time job of just being young. III. It could’ve been the light of early fall or the height of summer not letting on that time is short in that bright hospice room I held your hand not knowing what else; comforted by the quiet bustle of soft shoed nurses. Quick to smile, they hustled tucking blankets and tending pumps and morphine drips to the regular rhythm of ragged breath; wishing against wishing each is your last. Your hand I remember delicate as bird bones, skin whisper soft spotted and thinned by years held us to the end.
Good job editing. I reread the original just for comparison and you've definitely tightened it up and ending is fine.
TqB
Hi TqB,
I really appreciate your added comments.
Thanks,
Bryn
an improvement (I think) though a lot of the line breaks are looking rather artful, trying too hard. And I think the 'holding your hand' / 'remember your hand' sections are too close together.
Still not sure if it feels quite 'flitty' (?) enough.
The thicket dark
and brambled, memories
flitting branch to branch,
i
Lily of the valley blooming sweet
sprays of white bells ringing round
the hillside behind your house
on Martha Washington;
those stairs the height of Everest
we tumbled down and down again
playing octopus
with Grandpa always lit by his blazing
holiday fire; ............ Agree with TqB about the original (without the grasping/reaching what does 'to be caught' mean?) Also, still not seeing what the fire is adding to the 'memories of L'
the child’s thrill, wishing against
wishing to be caught.
ii
But never you
did I see so carefree, your song you sang
quietly from the small corners
in the background of memory, ....... I can't follow this (and it doesn't feel like a 'memory' more like a comment.) Also, I think it clashes with the 'formica table' section that follows. They don't appear to be the same memory.
iii ........ surely this is a separate memory?
I imagine
your Lauren Bacall gapped grin,
iv.
the curl of cigarette smoke
sitting at the pink Formica table
in the kitchen talking, just us two,
hanging on every missing word ...... favourite line
never
heard from you to know you. But
where was I other than lost
in the full-time job of just
being young. ............... Like the idea of this last section, but 'full-time job' - I get what you mean - seems at odds with 'just being young'. Selfishness?
It could’ve been the light
of early fall or the height
of summer not letting
on that time is short ............ think this works better as the end of this section, rather than the beginning of the next.
v. ........ too many hands here (but they can be combined)
