Pornography in the Woods

[JamesG]

Here's an autobiographical poem that could do with a bit of work-shopping as I don't think it is working at the moment (including the title)



Pornography in the Woods


The Woods, long since lost to the inevitable, were to us
an infinite playground, filled with feral teens, oozing lust and
hate, aiming fake guns at our tender flesh. We would have
to run, swerving like crocodiles to escape the metal sting,
Someone lost an eye we would all intone, not sure if it were true,
thirsting for the time when we could do it too. At night, we knew
the Woods inverted, lonely fires illuminating the distaff leaf, smoke
and disappointment drifting through the canopy to fall upon
council roofs, an icing made of negative, a photo undeveloped.

Come morning we would find the smoldering campsites
left over from the night before, rocks and cans and magazines,
abandoned by a retreating army of one, maybe two. 
We would reach in curiosity for the relics of the top shelf,
bronze skin and masked wives, posing awkward and profane.
Mothers, daughters, sisters arranged in an awkward vanitas,
legs always akimbo, a vision, a version, of another world,
a world that lay in wait, a panther hidden in suburban trees,
waiting for the opportunity to drop and crush our skulls
between its teeth, but let us live with newfound wounds,
holes that let the light in, sunlight blistering and blackening
the pages still old and torn and tender, to burst to flame and fall to ash,
an end of summer butterfly, still crisp around the edges.

[Knot]

I think this pretty much falls at the opening, and never really recovers. I don't know who 'us' are and how they might be distinct from 'feral teens'. There's a notion that 'us' must be younger children (though not necessarily, thought the 'lost and eye' supports younger) but then how would they know about the woods at night? For me there's too much detail, not enough thought (in the sense of exploration) and some of the word choices make no sense ('distaff' in particular.)

If the title matters, and it may not, then you could simply ignore the first verse entirely and begin with the third line of verse two (with it's adult eye view of the past.)
I struggled with 'panther' (and the three lines that follow) but if it's going to be there it deserves more unpacking than it gets. It could be a great metaphor prowling the suburban trees, but it doesn't feel like that (and how/why would it crush skulls?) Likewise, 'curiosity' seems to rather downplay the emotions of such discoveries, where's the thrill, nervousness, arousal, fear of detection?



relics of the top shelf/The Panther

bronze skin and masked wives, .......... what about those tan lines, hair, curves, shadows ... ?
awkward and profane,damp
with night sweat
Mothers, daughters, sisters .............  why a list? Sounds like the adult editing the memory.
in an awkward vanitas,
a vision of another world
that lay in wait, for a moment
it was as if a panther
was hiding in suburban trees
....
let us live with newfound wounds ..... great, but what are they, those wounds?


Best, Knot

.

[bianca.a.palmisano]

I'm going to attempt a close reading on this one, because there's a lot of beautiful imagery, but it doesn't string together into a particularly coherent narrative for me. I'm hoping if you can see where the content doesn't parse, you can pare down and adjust some of the language. Good luck!

Here's an autobiographical poem that could do with a bit of work-shopping as I don't think it is working at the moment (including the title)



Pornography in the Woods


The Woods, long since lost to the inevitable, were to us 
an infinite playground, filled with feral teens, oozing lust and  <-- ok, so the woods are a place of imagination, but a dangerous one, with older kids who have very intense ideas of what constitutes "play"; if you're trying to draw contrast here between innocence of childhood and the "dangerous maturity" of teens, you're on track. If not, time to adjust.
hate, aiming fake guns at our tender flesh. We would have
to run, swerving like crocodiles to escape the metal sting,  <-- why crocodiles? if the gun is fake, how can there be a metal sting?
Someone lost an eye we would all intone, not sure if it were true, <-- I think there are other ways to indicate this was gossip/tall tales egged on by childhood naivete
thirsting for [the time when we could do it too.] At night, we knew <-- This phrase can be pared down; "for our turn with power," something like that
the Woods inverted, lonely fires illuminating the distaff leaf, smoke  <-- Inverted is a confusing choice of words here, what's turned around, what power dynamic has changed?
and disappointment drifting through the canopy to fall upon
council roofs, an icing made of negative, a photo undeveloped.  <-- The photography language is clever, but you haven't seeded it anywhere earlier in the stanza, so it seems confusing, maybe you can do something with a camera instead of a crocodile earlier in the piece

Come morning we would find the smoldering campsites
left over from the night before, rocks and cans and magazines, <-- Ok, so we've got the remnants of teens mucking around in the woods; are they having the time of their lives? Or is their detritus a sign that things are more sad than the kids have been led to believe
abandoned by a retreating army of one, maybe two.   <-- Be definitive
We would reach in curiosity for the relics of the top shelf, <-- Now we're inside? Where is this top shelf?
bronze skin and masked wives, posing awkward and profane.
Mothers, daughters, sisters arranged in an awkward vanitas,
legs always akimbo, a vision, a version, of another world,
a world that lay in wait, a panther hidden in of suburban trees, <-- it feels repetitive to talk about hiding if you've already used the language "lay in wait"
waiting for the opportunity to drop and crush our skulls
between its teeth, but let us live with newfound wounds,
holes that let the light in, sunlight blistering and blackening
the pages still old and torn and tender, to burst to flame and fall to ash, <-- here we've got the merging of two metaphors, both interesting, but not quite melding; the flame (like the campsite), but also the sunlight streaming in through the holes in the skull; they're very different types of light/heat/destruction
an end of summer butterfly, still crisp around the edges. <-- always good to end with a compliment, I think this is a lovely turn of phrase and a delicate end to the piece

[JamesG]

Thanks guys for the feedback, I will edit and come back to you shortly!