Scarecrow

[JamesG]

All critiques welcome


Scarecrow

When I was a child
my feet were made of straw.
I could look down at them and
pick holes in them, and through the skin
see the straw and dust,
particulate and raw.
Knuckle deep I explored
this odd phenomenon,
thinking how
the wicked witch said
the last to go
will see the first three go before.
But I am not a scarecrow nor a scared crow,
standing static in the bone-white moonlight,
crucified for no purpose,
waiting on some random waif
to come along and save me.
My puckered skin disgorges
long threads of flattened fiber,
like fragile sunshined sinew,
curling around my fingers,
a void inside my feet.
I take a thread and needle
and sow up the rough-edged skin,
but later I pick more holes,
ankle, shin, knee, hip, and groin holes
each torn and sown in turn,
to see, how far it up my half-formed body
this strange affliction goes.
Though the straw is poorly packed,
in each fresh wound it shows
its harvested intricacies,
its sharp-edged, fibrous slack.
Taking my mother's blood-red picker,
I unpick the threads around my chest
Peeling back each fold of skin and crest
of bone to find
where my heart should reasonably be,
a family of field mice,
asleep within my breast.
In a nest of woven, golden wheat they lie,
their tiny bodies sighing.
With every straw-filled breath they take,
I think they stop me dying.

[Knot]

Hi James,
like the conceit, and the ending works well, but I think it could stand a bit of editing.
Also, you reference 'skin' frequently - do Scarecrows have skin? And 'straw' is mentioned too often for my taste.

The title tells one what it's about, so al lot of the descriptions seem redundant. That said, at one point the speaker denies they are a scarecrow but never explores what they think they might be.


Scarecrow

When I was a child
my feet were made of straw.

Knuckle deep I explored this
thinking how the wicked witch .......... do you need 'wicked witch'? Would 'she' work?

said the last to go will see
the first three go before. .................... did the scarecrow meet the witch when he was a child?

But I am not a scarecrow
nor a scared crow, standing static

in the bone-white moonlight,
crucified for no purpose, ....................... like these four lines, but don't see how they fit in with the rest.

waiting on some random waif
to come along and save me. ..................... 'random' seems a tad too modern(?)

I take a thread and needle
and sow up the rough-edged skin, .............. maybe 'sack-cloth' for 'rough-edged'?

Taking my mother's blood-red picker,
I unpick the threads around my chest .......... like it, but don't see how it follows from what precedes it?

Peeling back each fold to find
where my heart should reasonably be,

a family of field mice,
asleep within my breast.

In a nest of woven, golden wheat they lie,
their tiny bodies sighing.

With every straw-filled breath they take,
I think they stop me dying.  ........................ these (8) lines are really nice, but can't see how you get to them from where you start. (Anything better than 'straw-filled breath'?)

Enjoyed the read.

Best, Knot

.

[busker]

All critiques welcome


Scarecrow

When I was a child
my feet were made of straw.
I could look down at them and
pick holes in them, and through the skin
see the straw and dust,
particulate and raw.
Knuckle deep I explored
this odd phenomenon,
thinking how
the wicked witch said
the last to go
will see the first three go before.
But I am not a scarecrow nor a scared crow,
standing static in the bone-white moonlight,
crucified for no purpose,
waiting on some random waif
to come along and save me.
My puckered skin disgorges
long threads of flattened fiber,
like fragile sunshined sinew,
curling around my fingers,
a void inside my feet.
I take a thread and needle
and sow up the rough-edged skin, ...sew
but later I pick more holes,
ankle, shin, knee, hip, and groin holes
each torn and sown in turn, ...............sewn
to see, how far it up my half-formed body
this strange affliction goes.
Though the straw is poorly packed,
in each fresh wound it shows
its harvested intricacies,
its sharp-edged, fibrous slack.
Taking my mother's blood-red picker,
I unpick the threads around my chest
Peeling back each fold of skin and crest
of bone to find
where my heart should reasonably be,
a family of field mice,
asleep within my breast.
In a nest of woven, golden wheat they lie,
their tiny bodies sighing.
With every straw-filled breath they take,
I think they stop me dying.

Hi - the lines in bold are gorgeous. They are sensual, unexpected, and arresting.
A couple of spelling mistakes. The line in green is cringeworthy.

What I think you could lose is the juxtaposition of the scarecrow with your life's circumstances. It detracts from the impersonal, observation-like nature of the rest of the lines. I also couldn't follow the metaphor beyond the 'random waif'. It seemed to descend into too much woe is me.

I think you could also lose some of the random rhyming. It doesn't come across as natural, but capricious and puzzling where it pops up.

Overall, this is a fantastic poem that could be made even better with a little editing.

[Mark A Becker]

Hello James-

Each critique has suggested that you pare this poem down, and I agree.

It is an intriquing idea that a nest may be where your heart is, but you sure do take the long around to getting there.

The oblique references to the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz only obscure the view- just allow a reader to imagine that.

I would leave out any mention of skin unless you can tie it in somehow (it's confusing).

Your scarecrow is left hanging, and the metaphor could be employed to greater effect- that's for you to figure out.

It's a way cool idea, but it needs to be stitched together better. Rely on the images that you created and sharpen it from there.

`Mark

[JamesG]

Thanks everybody for your criticism, very useful, I will look at the poem and re-edit it. Some of the content I am not too comfortable losing as the poem is inspired by a dream a had as a child in which I could reach down and pick holes in my skin and see straw inside of my feet, an image than never left me. I was also quite obsessed with the Wizard of Oz at the time hence the references to that film, but I can tone them down I think.

A shame you don't like the "random waif" Line, Busker, as I was quite pleased with that oblique reference to Dorothy ;0)