Extravagant Breakfast

[ecofreak20]

Preface: this is hot, meaning it's live for submission. I've only put this one in a handful of times to a few publications, but it's been a resounding no so far. Please let me know what's not working, I'll take another look at it. Thank you so much in advance for your feedback.

Content warnings for cannibalism, war, grotesque imagery, clinical language...(if I've missed some, I apologize, and if this needed to be in the title, I'll make sure I change it)

Extravagant Breakfast

I wonder if a burning womb shares
the smell of pork also.
Human flesh carries the same
scent as soldiers
bringing gingham-clad Freedom
folded into wicker-woven rifles.
No one wants it, though.
You see, it reeks
raised from a tin like gelatinous meat:
processed, preserved, perforated with a fork
then fried in sweet brine.
If I’m to have such an extravagant breakfast
how can I enjoy the taste of rot?
I’m hungry of course,
ravenous
for human meat.
I am your man,
made of mangles on gas lines.
I want to eat- to teach
your children what it means
when a mother desires more
than the right to her stovetop,
her kitchen table.
I’ll show them how to
patronize, to placate, to preserve
you are nothing,
nothing,
nothing
but a womb.
Placenta prepared
shimmering, grilled
served over a bed of white rice.

[busker]

Preface: this is hot, meaning it's live for submission. I've only put this one in a handful of times to a few publications, but it's been a resounding no so far. Please let me know what's not working, I'll take another look at it. Thank you so much in advance for your feedback.

Content warnings for cannibalism, war, grotesque imagery, clinical language...(if I've missed some, I apologize, and if this needed to be in the title, I'll make sure I change it)

Extravagant Breakfast

I wonder if a burning womb shares
the smell of pork also. .... this is a meh opening. There's nothing to wonder at here, because there are enough accounts from cannibals that human flesh tastes like pork. Long pork, as they call it in PNG. The intention is clearly to startle the reader, but it comes across as bland and gimmicky.
Human flesh carries the same
scent as soldiers 
bringing gingham-clad Freedom  ....human flesh carries the same scent as soldiers, who are also human flesh? That's not quite a revelation
folded into wicker-woven rifles.  ... the impossibility of a wicker woven rifle means that it's either a lazy metaphor or carelessness on the part of the author, neither of which delights the reader
No one wants it, though.  
You see, it reeks
raised from a tin like gelatinous meat:  
processed, preserved, perforated with a fork
then fried in sweet brine.  ....you can't fry in brine, which is not sweet. Usually, contradictions such as this one have a point, but here it's not clear what that point is. Note that the 'it' in the line above ostensibly refers to freedom
If I’m to have such an extravagant breakfast
how can I enjoy the taste of rot?  ...what is the 'extravagant breakfast'? you've lost control of the metaphor. The 'freedom' reeks LIKE meat inside a tin that is already rotting, according to the previous lines. To then wonder how you can enjoy an extravagant breakfast of rotting meat which smells like rot makes no literal sense.
I’m hungry of course,
ravenous
for human meat.  ...it's not clear who the narrator is, which adds to the confusion. And the poem isn't interesting enough till this point for the reader to really want to rack his brains
I am your man,
made of mangles on gas lines.
I want to eat- to teach
your children what it means
when a mother desires more
than the right to her stovetop,  ...what happened to the villagers weaving wicker guns? Where did the mother enter the picture? 
her kitchen table.
I’ll show them how to
patronize, to placate, to preserve
you are nothing,
nothing,
nothing
but a womb.
Placenta prepared
shimmering, grilled
served over a bed of white rice.  ...vaguely, this reads like a long harangue about a woman's right to abort, or something like that. But it's a stream of consciousness rant, if so. And not an interesting one.

Hi ecofreak - since you posted in Intensive, the crit will be to the point.
There is nothing of poetic interest in this poem. The attempt to shock the reader is clumsy and fails. The metaphors are all over the place. It's a boring read.
One way to address the failings of this poem is to cut it down to a third of its length and achieve cohesion and clarity through concision.

[rowens]

Extravagant Breakfast

I wonder if a burning womb shares
 . . . also.
Human flesh carries the same
scent as
gingham-clad Freedom,
folded-wicker into . . . guns.

If I’m to have such an extravagant breakfast
 . . . 
I'm your man.

I want to eat . . . to teach
your children what it means: to
patronize, to placate, to preserve. . . .

---

I'm using the show not tell rule also in the realm of critique

[ecofreak20]

Preface: this is hot, meaning it's live for submission. I've only put this one in a handful of times to a few publications, but it's been a resounding no so far. Please let me know what's not working, I'll take another look at it. Thank you so much in advance for your feedback.

Content warnings for cannibalism, war, grotesque imagery, clinical language...(if I've missed some, I apologize, and if this needed to be in the title, I'll make sure I change it)

Extravagant Breakfast

I wonder if a burning womb shares
the smell of pork also. .... this is a meh opening. There's nothing to wonder at here, because there are enough accounts from cannibals that human flesh tastes like pork. Long pork, as they call it in PNG. The intention is clearly to startle the reader, but it comes across as bland and gimmicky.
Human flesh carries the same
scent as soldiers 
bringing gingham-clad Freedom  ....human flesh carries the same scent as soldiers, who are also human flesh? That's not quite a revelation
folded into wicker-woven rifles.  ... the impossibility of a wicker woven rifle means that it's either a lazy metaphor or carelessness on the part of the author, neither of which delights the reader
No one wants it, though.  
You see, it reeks
raised from a tin like gelatinous meat:  
processed, preserved, perforated with a fork
then fried in sweet brine.  ....you can't fry in brine, which is not sweet. Usually, contradictions such as this one have a point, but here it's not clear what that point is. Note that the 'it' in the line above ostensibly refers to freedom
If I’m to have such an extravagant breakfast
how can I enjoy the taste of rot?  ...what is the 'extravagant breakfast'? you've lost control of the metaphor. The 'freedom' reeks LIKE meat inside a tin that is already rotting, according to the previous lines. To then wonder how you can enjoy an extravagant breakfast of rotting meat which smells like rot makes no literal sense.
I’m hungry of course,
ravenous
for human meat.  ...it's not clear who the narrator is, which adds to the confusion. And the poem isn't interesting enough till this point for the reader to really want to rack his brains
I am your man,
made of mangles on gas lines.
I want to eat- to teach
your children what it means
when a mother desires more
than the right to her stovetop,  ...what happened to the villagers weaving wicker guns? Where did the mother enter the picture? 
her kitchen table.
I’ll show them how to
patronize, to placate, to preserve
you are nothing,
nothing,
nothing
but a womb.
Placenta prepared
shimmering, grilled
served over a bed of white rice.  ...vaguely, this reads like a long harangue about a woman's right to abort, or something like that. But it's a stream of consciousness rant, if so. And not an interesting one.

Hi ecofreak - since you posted in Intensive, the crit will be to the point.
There is nothing of poetic interest in this poem. The attempt to shock the reader is clumsy and fails. The metaphors are all over the place. It's a boring read.
One way to address the failings of this poem is to cut it down to a third of its length and achieve cohesion and clarity through concision.

Hi busker,

Firstly, thank you for ripping this apart. I needed it, badly.

Onto the meat of it, I did intend to imply that the "freedom" soldiers/imperialism brings is rotten. I intended to say that freedom is rotten because, for mothers, its presence means they lose agency of their bodies, in the perspective I'm presenting. I specifically wanted to contemplate the womb, the metaphor of eating one's placenta after birth, what that meant to me in the context of colonialism. 

Looking back on the establishment of the narrator in Line 12, it looks like my initial move was to open with "man" contemplating why he'd want to eat rotten human meat called "freedom." The way I've written it doesn't make that clear, I see that. Then, as you say, I don't clarify the metaphor much further.

I'd intended for it to go on to comment on how hellbent society is on the preservation of the womb, not the woman carrying it. The perspective of society I have, in one facet at least, is that it uses women as birthing vessels to keep producing children who will continue preserving wombs, to keep placating mothers/women, to preserve their wombs for more children, and so on. Very Handmaid's Tale. If you have insight on how I might make that clearer; I'll start by stripping this to its bones though, maybe use rowens' post below as a starting point.

It was stream of consciousness when I wrote it, you're right there. I'm not clear about whether a narrator needs to be established, could you tell me more about what you'd think would be appropriate as a reader? I figure it would only be a word or two.

I'm confused, as the way I'm interpreting "introduce/establish a narrator" is, "Henry from the front came home and ate a womb/ why would he?/ To tell his wife he owned her..." or something like that (just off the top of my head- I'm thinking you mean to establish a character right out of the gate). Is that what you mean?

[rowens]

Seems that you're concerned with the audience and the message.

I can't say much to you, as I am always more concerned with the poem (and, yeah, myself) than the audience or the message.

Let's take me out of this.
This leaves us with the poem.


What is more important to you, a good/great poem or a message to a specific audience?

You are the poet, the maker of art.
As you are writing, are you concerned with how true the expression is to you or some people you know or a particular audience?


I can only ever speak to anyone here artistically.  
And artistically, topical issues are important; in the actual realm where poetry is being written, topical issues are mere fodder for the art.

That may be offensive or insensitive. : If you want your poem to make a difference in the very real currency of topics, you might can do that. And you might can write a great poem that does that and survives as a great poem.

Same with love poems. You write a poem cuz you want a particular person to like you.

You know?

My Intensive Critique concerns the notion of fitting a topical expression.

Dig into the art of the poetry of the theme. Even if it seems to obscure the initial cause or topic.

People will be abusing each other and going to war for a long while.

Be selfish. Be an artist.