Letter

[heslopian]

The door was open each morning when it should have been closed.
You knew how sensitive Stan was.
A simple draft and he'd shake like a slaughterhouse pig.
I wonder if he knew? Nobody has walls, darling.
We think we put them up but we don't.
You'd have your back to me when I'd come in,
pretending to clean plates or darn Lily's socks.
(Who darns socks after breakfast?
I'm genuinely curious.)

At first I think it was the minute popping of buttons which aroused you.
I had the finest blouse on our street.
Ted was so proud when we went to the pub,
and I ordered a gin while every girl scowled.
Among all the whispers of "how does she dare?"
"with everyone scrimping she shows up in that?"
"Ted must have robbed the post office,"
you looked and sipped your wine,
quietly held by some mystery.

Of course, each time, after I'd sat where Stan had just sat,
you put down a sock or a plate, and turned around,
accessed by that small popping. The silence itself had a charm.
I smoked a cigarette and studied the paneling
like a bored prostitute. I think that was part of the original thrill.
You looked like you'd never seen breasts other than your own before.

Now Stan is dead and the door remains closed.
You gave him the marriage he wanted. Applied lipstick daily,
made meals, accompanied him to the pub now and then,
bore Lily and Daniel, darned Lily's socks, cleaned plates,
and mopped his brow each night near the end.
Now is the time to give me a key.

[billy]

nice POV jack, will give it some serious feedback when my isp decides to let me surf the web without timing out.

[Philatone]

Hey!
some thoughts to consider

The door was open each morning when it should have been closed.
You knew how sensitive Stan was.
A simple draft and he'd shake like a slaughterhouse pig.
I wonder if he knew? Nobody has walls, darling.
We think we put them up but we don't.
You'd have your back to me when I'd come in,
pretending to clean plates or darn Lily's socks.
(Who darns socks after breakfast?
I'm genuinely curious.) ...I like the line above much more than this added on line, though it is entirely personal preference. I think the line above it already conveys that sentiment, though perhaps not quite as strongly as you wanted?

...I have mixed feelings so far. the first line strikes me as a tad too descriptive and direct for an opening. the "I wonder...we don't" also did little for me. I do like the "A simple draft" line

At first I think it was the minute popping of buttons which aroused you.
I had the finest blouse on our street.
Ted was so proud when we went to the pub,
and I ordered a gin while every girl scowled.
Among all the whispers of "how does she dare?"
"with everyone scrimping she shows up in that?"
"Ted must have robbed the post office,"
you looked and sipped your wine,
quietly held by some mystery. ...think this line could be dropped. for me, the quotations stole some of the stanza's momentum away. I liked everything before them; "I ordered...scowled" is great! In some ways, just saying "I had the finest blouse on our street" and "I ordered a gin while every girl scowled" already convey enough of the separation between the speaker, Ted, and the others for me

Of course, each time, after I'd sat where Stan had just sat, ...this line feels like it could be trimmed
you put down a sock or a plate, and turned around,
accessed by that small popping. The silence itself had a charm. ...what popping? from the seat?
I smoked a cigarette and studied the paneling, ...don't need the comma
like a bored prostitute. I think that was part of the original thrill.
You looked like you'd never seen breasts other than your own before. ...again, I like the closing two lines

Now Stan is dead and the door remains closed.
You gave him the marriage he wanted. Applied lipstick daily,
made meals, accompanied him to the pub now and then,
bore Lily and Daniel, darned Lily's socks, cleaned plates,
and mopped his brow each night near the end.
Now is the time to give me a key.

...this strikes me as straight description, little action, and very summative. too much, too quickly, and it makes it harder for me to get drawn in

I think trimming could really polish this piece. I hope some of what I've said is helpful

[heslopian]

The popping in the penultimate stanza is from the blouse's buttons being undone. I think I will remove the comma after "paneling." Thanks for the feedback, Philatone

[Philatone]

entirely my mistake; perhaps I'm not in a state for reading, though the distance between the reference is somewhat large. again, I'm probably to blame

another reference to the blouse in that area would have helped me make the connection sooner

[tectak]

The door was open each morning when it should have been closed.
You knew how sensitive Stan was.
A simple draft and he'd shake like a slaughterhouse pig. fears of dying for his country or a chill wind?
I wonder if he knew? Nobody has walls, darling.I can wait to find out who Stan is, but in the meantime I felt a disconnect between the two brief sentences in this line. The unknowns are beginning to fall like tetris bricks.
We think we put them up but we don't.
You'd have your back to me when I'd come in,
pretending to clean plates or darn Lily's socks.
(Who darns socks after breakfast?
I'm genuinely curious.)
I like this in its entirety....but also in its isolation; and it is isolated.The Lilly brick falls and I have no wall.
At first I think it was the minute popping of buttons which aroused you.
I had the finest blouse on our street.
Ted was so proud when we went to the pub,
and I ordered a gin while every girl scowled.
Among all the whispers of "how does she dare?"
"with everyone scrimping she shows up in that?"
"Ted must have robbed the post office,"
you looked and sipped your wine,
quietly held by some mystery. OK. This is going where it is most comfortable...it is a story. Better not pretend it is poetry.

Of course, each time, after I'd sat where Stan had just sat,
you put down a sock or a plate, and turned around,
accessed by that small popping. The silence itself had a charm.
I smoked a cigarette and studied the paneling
like a bored prostitute. I think that was part of the original thrill. Yes. Good observed behavior. Not sure about the word use. "accessed" is probably just plain wrong. "Distracted" or "attracted" or "intrigued" or "interested". One "l" in paneling if US. Otherwise double "l"
You looked like you'd never seen breasts other than your own before.

Now Stan is dead and the door remains closed.
You gave him the marriage he wanted. Applied lipstick daily,
made meals, accompanied him to the pub now and then,
bore Lily and Daniel, darned Lily's socks, cleaned plates,
and mopped his brow each night near the end.
Now is the time to give me a key.

I guess I have but one problem with this. It neither needs, requires, benefits from or is in any way acceptable as a poem. That's fine if that's fine but not if it's not. Your call.
Best,
Tectak

[heslopian]

Stan is shivering from the draft.
Thanks for the heads up on "paneling." I ran this through an American spellchecker.
What makes this not a poem? A lot of poems have narratives, like this one by Philip Larkin: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5C3wth2v_w
Thanks for the feedback, tectak

[tectak]

Stan is shivering from the draft.
Thanks for the heads up on "paneling." I ran this through an American spellchecker.
What makes this not a poem? A lot of poems have narratives, like this one by Philip Larkin: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5C3wth2v_w
Thanks for the feedback, tectak

A much better question is what makes it a poem? And the answer is nothing to do with narrative absent or present

[heslopian]

Regardless the question I still don't know the answer. You've said this isn't in any way a poem. Could you please tell me why? I'd find it helpful to know your reasoning so I might apply it to my next piece. In your original comment you implied you saw it as a story, not a poem, hence my comment about narratives.

[tectak]

The door was open each morning when it should have been closed. You knew how sensitive Stan was. A simple draft and he'd shake like a slaughterhouse pig.
I wonder if he knew? Nobody has walls, darling. We think we put them up but we don't. You'd have your back to me when I'd come in, pretending to clean plates or darn Lily's socks. (Who darns socks after breakfast?
I'm genuinely curious.)
At first I think it was the minute popping of buttons which aroused you. I had the finest blouse on our street. Ted was so proud when we went to the pub, and I ordered a gin while every girl scowled.
Among all the whispers of "How does she dare?"
"With everyone scrimping she shows up in that?"
"Ted must have robbed the post office." You looked and sipped your wine, quietly held by some mystery.
Of course, each time, after I'd sat where Stan had just sat, you put down a sock or a plate, and turned around, accessed by that small popping. The silence itself had a charm. I smoked a cigarette and studied the paneling like a bored prostitute. I think that was part of the original thrill. You looked like you'd never seen breasts other than your own before.
Now Stan is dead and the door remains closed. You gave him the marriage he wanted. Applied lipstick daily, made meals, accompanied him to the pub now and then, bore Lily and Daniel, darned Lily's socks, cleaned plates, and mopped his brow each night near the end.
Now is the time to give me a key.

That's why.

Or, just because you make line breaks at random, doesn't satisfy the need for rhythm. So you cannot make a poem into a story....but as you can see, it reads very well as above so it wasn't a poem to begin with........unless, of course, you believe that ANY constructed grouping of words is poetry......bu you don't...do you?

[heslopian]

I constructed this piece so that it would have a sensual quality, a sort of inner music when read aloud. Sentences were written and placed so a flow could be established. In my opinion that makes this a free verse poem as opposed to prose.
Thanks for your helpful explanation The way you've rearranged it does make it look like a prose story. Maybe I should ditch the line breaks (which are a bit arbitrary) and call it a prose poem.

[abu nuwas]

It is perhaps best thought of as a prose-poem. I think the idea of the bored prostitute, with a fag in her mouth, is maybe cliche, or stereotypical. The scene unfortunately reminded me of one of my brother's mates in the RAF, going down to the Big Smoke, and returning very excited after having been to somewhere in Soho. Eventually, he let on, that all the time he had been going up and down like a pig, she had been eating fish and chips. Once I remembered this, the poem was done for. Sorry--but, I do have a taste for these suburban dramas, the very stuff of life for the man on the Clapham omnibus. Take no notice of that other fellow... I am sure that it reads well aloud.

[billy]

The door was open each morning when it should have been closed.
You knew how sensitive Stan was.
A simple draft and he'd shake like a slaughterhouse pig. strong similie
I wonder if he knew? Nobody has walls, darling. would quotes or italics make the speech stand out
We think we put them up but we don't.
You'd have your back to me when I'd come in,
pretending to clean plates or darn Lily's socks.
(Who darns socks after breakfast?
I'm genuinely curious.) would italics work better than parenthathingies.

At first I think it was the minute popping of buttons which aroused you.
I had the finest blouse on our street.
Ted was so proud when we went to the pub,
and I ordered a gin while every girl scowled.
Among all the whispers of "how does she dare?"
"with everyone scrimping she shows up in that?"
"Ted must have robbed the post office,"
you looked and sipped your wine,
quietly held by some mystery.

Of course, each time, after I'd sat where Stan had just sat,
you put down a sock or a plate, and turned around,
accessed by that small popping. The silence itself had a charm.
I smoked a cigarette and studied the paneling
like a bored prostitute. I think that was part of the original thrill.
You looked like you'd never seen breasts other than your own before.

Now Stan is dead and the door remains closed.
You gave him the marriage he wanted. Applied lipstick daily,
made meals, accompanied him to the pub now and then,
bore Lily and Daniel, darned Lily's socks, cleaned plates,
and mopped his brow each night near the end.
Now is the time to give me a key.

the narrative is really good, some really good images and the female relationship shine through really strong, i just had a few nits above but the real problems are it's good points. it reads like a short short story more than like a poem, the good thing is, you have all the ingredients here. they just need to be stirred a little; the similes work well but the prose side beats them down a little to hard. enjambment would probably be your best friend in this piece jack. while you have a metaphor with the wall line, i think a couple more would help with any re en-jambing an edit would bring. at present it's a really good piece of prose that's fighting to be a really good poem, but falling short. a small edit will lift it where it needs to be. i did enjoy the read and the POV.
thanks for the read as always.

---

a question; why is it called the letter?

[heslopian]

Thanks for the feedback, abu and billy It's called Letter because I pictured it as a letter pushed under the door by the speaker. I'll call it something else if I can think of a more imaginative title
abu, she ate fish and chips while he was on top of her? Wow, talk about distancing!

[billy]

i wasn't able to make the connection to the letter, instead of changing it, just work it into the poem somewhere

[addy]

I vote you keep the title. I rather like it... it has the air of something that can be both formal and clandestine. If you want to work it into the poem so your intent isn't lost, maybe begin the poem with a line that suggests salutations, or more personally references the addressee (the second line does this better than the first).

Just adding my two cents

The door was open each morning when it should have been closed.
You knew how sensitive Stan was.
A simple draft and he'd shake like a slaughterhouse pig.
I wonder if he knew? Nobody has walls, darling. Like "darling" as an affectation. Somehow it lets me picture your narrator's voice better
We think we put them up but we don't.
You'd have your back to me when I'd come in,
pretending to clean plates or darn Lily's socks.
(Who darns socks after breakfast?
I'm genuinely curious.) Don't think you need this line? Or, at least, you don't need "genuinely"

At first I think it was the minute popping of buttons which aroused you. Perhaps you don't need "I think"? No reason for the POV to not sound confident, at this point
I had the finest blouse on our street.
Ted was so proud when we went to the pub,
and I ordered a gin while every girl scowled.
Among all the whispers of "how does she dare?"
"with everyone scrimping she shows up in that?"
"Ted must have robbed the post office,"
you looked and sipped your wine,
quietly held by some mystery.

Of course, Is "of course" needed? It may be little things like this that give it a prose feel each time, after I'd sat where Stan had just sat,
you put down a sock or a plate, and turned around,
accessed by that small popping. The silence itself had a charm.
I smoked a cigarette and studied the paneling
like a bored prostitute. I think that was part of the original thrill.
You looked like you'd never seen breasts other than your own before.

Now Stan is dead and the door remains closed.
You gave him the marriage he wanted. Applied lipstick daily,
made meals, accompanied him to the pub now and then,
bore Lily and Daniel, darned Lily's socks, cleaned plates,
and mopped his brow each night near the end.
Now is the time to give me a key. Wish there was more build-up to this final line, as there was a slight leap.May be just me

[abu nuwas]

Thanks for the feedback, abu and billy It's called Letter because I pictured it as a letter pushed under the door by the speaker. I'll call it something else if I can think of a more imaginative title
abu, she ate fish and chips while he was on top of her? Wow, talk about distancing!

They don't call them ''working girls'' for nothing; she had probably had a busy day, and was hungry--- but the image of sticking out a hand while he was furiously having the greatest time of his life, and grabbing a chip or two, dunking ketchup and popping in her mouth while it was free, does have something about it, doesn't it? What a long journey...malt vinegar to crack cocaine...

[heslopian]

Thanks for the kind feedback, addy

---

They don't call them ''working girls'' for nothing; she had probably had a busy day, and was hungry---

To quote Paul Merton, "she must have been rushed off her feet. And I could use a better word than "rushed."