A Clockwise Direction (revised)

[penguin]

Revised version

A Clockwise Direction

I found that long lost wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room.
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is -
I try to read very little into that.
There are layers of dust upon dust in the loft
and a guaranteed insulation
if I pass over the smaller print.

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P;
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
All my books are in alphabetical order,
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
always in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath.

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door:
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake?

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe I’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke I’m laughing at.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks dispatched in ‘88 .
As we’re cutting the cake, your face
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in
and reach out to touch an amputation -
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died.





Original version


I found the last remaining wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room.
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is,
though I read very little into that;
there are layers of dust upon dust in the loft
and I’m loathe to consider conversion
at this late stage in the game.

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P;
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
My books are in alphabetical order;
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
each day in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath.

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door;
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake?

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke we’re laughing at.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks blown in ’88.
As we’re cutting the cake, your face
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,
I reach out to touch an amputation;
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died.

[Erthona]

penguin,

This is an interesting recollection, or sketch, which would be fine on it's own. The problem for me is there are these intrusions of attempted something, such as the comments about the "Russian doll", which make the original comments seem contrived: like a stage prop purposely set on the table for later use. Then there is the injection of this kind of oddly worded comment that seems to apply to nothing

"Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks blown in ’88."

These lines are nicely done

"When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,
I reach out to touch an amputation; "

But like several of these other parts the last two lines pop in as though they are suppose to have some kind of greater significance when it seems they have none.

"You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died. "

..but they always take them at weddings? I suppose that is true, but I don't see that as particularly worth commenting on.

I also have to wonder about such line as

"I found the last remaining wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room. "

and is that because there was a wedding photo explosion? i have no idea why it would be there, why it would be the last, or why you are coming across them as though picking them up, nor do I see the significance of that. I could go on, such as the comparing of your parents wedding photo with this one, why note your mother being fatter, or that there is an ashtray.

Yes, I note these comments, and...? There are just a whole lot of items here that have little inherent significance, nor are they connected in any obvious way

I suppose one could interpret as being sort of an Imagist poem in the Pound, or H.D style, except the last stanza interjects a little too much subjectivity for it to be that sort of unemotional cataloging that they were so fond of.

Sorry, I really haven't a clue what idea you are working with here.

Dale

[Todd]

Hello penguin,

Welcome to the site! Good to see you posting your work.

I've read this a few times now, and I'm not sure if I'll have any comments or suggestions to improve it. I enjoyed the poem and I'm not keying in on any real flaws. Here are some comments for you though.

I found the last remaining wedding photo--strong opening line
behind a doll in our daughter’s room.--great economy here setting the scene and relationships. While we learn later that the narrator has lost their partner to death, the "our" still conveys a sense of caring that makes you think even at this early stage that it likely isn't divorce. The first line gave a sense that these photos have been packed away or removed in some way. You start pinning down the context very early
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is,
though I read very little into that;--I took this to sort of foreshadow the germ (disease lines) later. I'm thinking that this is a Russian nesting doll, and I took this line to also point to things looking good on the surface, but a lot remains hidden within the layers.
there are layers of dust upon dust in the loft--I like the repetition of dust. It makes me consider at this point taking the later lines into account that the daughter is also dead. The line itself is also striking in that the narrator cleans daily yet this room has dust upon dust.
and I’m loathe to consider conversion
at this late stage in the game.--This line doesn't seem to add much and can probably be cut

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P;
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
My books are in alphabetical order;
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
each day in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath.

Here we get to the title of the piece. I like how this routine exposes the narrator's mind. This feels like someone holding themselves together through methodical process. That said, there is still tenderness here

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door;
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,--This is also a sad line given the context
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake?

All of these lines read well.

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.--Strong writing on these first four lines
How happy we appear! My Mum said never--love the line break on never here to somewhat contradict the first exclamation
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke we’re laughing at.--wonderful aside, good shifting of the tension from serious to light.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper--this line helps the build up to the conclusion
of the tower blocks blown in ’88.
As we’re cutting the cake, your face--again, strong line break on "face". With the early disease lines, I think of surgery.
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.--sad irony

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,--again nice echo to the earlier "trace the faintest whisper" line
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,--This line gives certainty to what's happened. The scents (and corresponding memories) that are left behind are often striking
I reach out to touch an amputation;--fantastic line and observation. The missing partner in the bed would be a sort of amputation
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died.--and now we circle back to the beginning. There's an additional irony in the "somebody important" as the person is incredibly important to the speaker, but largely unknown as far as worldly fame is concerned.

I don't know if any of those observations are helpful. I hope they are. Like I said though, I enjoyed the poem.

Best,

Todd

[Philatone]

Welcome, penguin. It is great to have you!

Some thoughts on this piece

I found the last remaining wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room. ...the "photo" and "doll" are interesting; both seem like tools of the past that make impressions on the present, especially after several reads
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is, ...more personal than anything, but I found the line just a little clunky with the different clauses. a part of me says that is fitting when talking about these types of dolls
though I read very little into that; ...interesting line; I couldn't help but wonder what exactly was not "read into"--where the doll came from (Russia) or the type of doll (i'm imagining the layered dolls). both questions seem valid for the piece
there are layers of dust upon dust in the loft
and I’m loathe to consider conversion
at this late stage in the game. ..this line did little for me

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P; ...the "it" may be a little vague; not sure if that concerns you (I imagine you are talking about the photograph, though the last stanza spends so much time talking about the doll)
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground. ...reveals some of the speaker's character
My books are in alphabetical order; ...the first line explained this already somewhat
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
each day in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath. ...entirely a suggestion: finding a way to close with "ending" would reinforce the word, which is already balanced by the opening with "starting"

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door;
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations, ...could stop at "friends" if desired
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;...again, perhaps slightly extra details if desired to be chopped after "white".
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake? ...I understand the desire to express change (and perhaps introduce the hazy-nature of "smoke" to go with dust), but it felt like a bit extra to me. The line above it already conveys the difference

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never ...nice line break
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke we’re laughing at. ...enjoyed this line, contrasts with the tone of the present

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks blown in ’88.
As we’re cutting the cake, your face ...conveys a sense of surgery with the line break and "cutting"
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart. ...great line, especially with how it's woven into the context

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,
I reach out to touch an amputation; ...strong
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals ...I'm not against this line; the idea is great though I'm not entirely sure if I connect with it. What is distracting me is how the idea doesn't have as strong of a connection to what preceded it as I would have liked. Some line before it to move on to funerals or the actual death would have made the transition a little less jarring for me. Maybe it is for effect. However, the rest of the poem refrains from doing things like that, and the stanza spends so much time discussing the relationship between two people that the switch to something general is even more dramatic. To include a "you" all of a sudden also threw me off
unless somebody important has died.

great read, really enjoyed. hope some of this may be helpful

[tectak]

I found the last remaining wedding photo whats not to like? A narrative opening, easy flow, conversationally imprecise as conversation often is. We are in the daughter's bedroom. Now I stop. Consider. Never a good idea. There is a wedding photo (last and remaining are not good together) behind a doll. It is asmall photo or a large doll. Why do I care. Well, this is image building. I want clues. I want to know that the writer is seeing what I am seeing. This is a doll....obscuring a photograph in a daughter's room. It is a Russian doll...........I am interested.
behind a doll in our daughter’s room.
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is,
though I read very little into that;
there are layers of dust upon dust in the loft Whaa?Whoa. Huh?I am in the loft not considering conversion. How did that happen?
and I’m loathe to consider conversion
at this late stage in the game.

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P; The doll?
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
My books are in alphabetical order;
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
each day in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath. This is good. This stanza tells me something and I can gain comfort from my own grasp of the situation.I hope I am reading OCD.

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture OK. "It" is all about the photo. So what's not to like, again.? That easy style is back....nicely punctuated. Helpful,even. I am drawn back.in. What doll?
that’s hanging next to the dining room door;
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake?

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke we’re laughing at. I am loving it. It is a cure for indigestion, insomnia, nervous twitches,it is a balm. This is gold. This is conversationally potent. This the powerof punctuation in action.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks blown in ’88. 88?
As we’re cutting the cake, your face
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,
I reach out to touch an amputation;
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died.

Very competant. A joy to read and savour. In fact, I'mgoing to read it again. Thank you.
Best,
Tectak (rarely this sanguine....but no blood to let in this piece)
Hi penguin,
I will come back to this one but am mid-creation right now. Is this your first or only posting on this site? I ask because (and tell me I am wrong) this smacks of commitment verse "brought on" by a real event. I have only made a low level pass over the piece but not found a landing site on safe ground. This is usually a sign of sincerity which always buggers up my critical compass.
If you reply to this before I add to it, could you direct me to some of your other work?
Best,
Tectak

[penguin]

Thanks for the comments, very helpful.
Dale. The poem was inspired, if that's the right word, by an Alan Bennett monologue. The character reveals himself through the course of the poem. Stage props seems to me a valid means to enable this. There is a connectedness in the poem and the last verse I'm more than happy with. Not so keen on parts of 4th and 5th verse in particular, the tower block lines for instance.

Todd. That's very helpful, thanks.Although these lines you highlighted are the favourites to be cut.

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.

And thanks, Philatone. It's a bit disturbing that two of you felt surgery was being referred to, that's not it at all!I was looking for an abrupt transition at the final 2 lines so that's fine.

Tectak. I've not come across the phrase commitment verse before. I think I know what you mean. No, the poem was imagined, though there is borrowing from real-life events. Does it matter, do you think?
I've written a lot of stuff on a site called Poets' Graves.

[billy]

could you please advertise us to your friends over there....if you have any
just kidding around, i'm in the process of leaving some feedback sorry for getting to it late.

---

I found the last remaining wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room. why not 'Russian doll' and drop the next line, which feels wordy and tacked on?
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is,
though I read very little into that;
there are layers of dust upon dust in the loft strong image
and I’m loathe to consider conversion
at this late stage in the game. feels unecessary

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P; another good image
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
My books are in alphabetical order; this has already been inferred
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
each day in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath. for some reason this got a smile out of me.

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door;
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake? i like the feel to this stanza. the comparisons. i like the way the ashtray feels as though it has some meaning.

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke we’re laughing at.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks blown in ’88. personal references unless popular leave the reader feeling cheated (well this read )
As we’re cutting the cake, your face
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,
I reach out to touch an amputation;
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died.

it feels like a death or a divorce, i like the use of amputation to show someone is missing. it has a touch of sadness but overall it has a feel of nostalgia, of looking back.

i think it's an impressive write that needs a small edit. it has a personal quality real or contrived i'm not sure tough it feels genuine. (which is what many of us aim for isn't it) i enjoyed it's originality and narration. you didn't overextend the narration. the lines ended where they should have. apart of a couple of suggestions the piece worked really well.
thanks for the read.

ps, i was only kidding about the lack of friends ...not the advertising us

[addy]

Wow, I really love this piece. Dale was pretty spot on in his comment that the poem tends to fixate on many details and images that don't seem overly significant, but i personally found that it suited the POV. It conveys a numbed obsessive-compulsiveness that was hinted on throughout the piece. Those lines you pointed out:

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.

My vote is you not cut them (though you can remove the callback to the Russian doll if you want). I find them to be a nice take on what's going on here; looking back, looking at things, deciphering them for any context or meaning or hint. It speaks truthfully about grief, i thought.

I found the last remaining wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room.
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is,
though I read very little into that; I'm uncertain what you mean by "read into", but the idea of nesting dolls make a nice prelude to the idea of layers (dust upon dust) which overall fits well with the examination that happens in this piece
there are layers of dust upon dust in the loft
and I’m loathe to consider conversion
at this late stage in the game. Yeah, not sure how relevant this bit is

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P;
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
My books are in alphabetical order;
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
each day in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath. I like this stanza and all it conveys. The almost childlike simplicity of order, and how the narrator uses it to emotionally blanket himself

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door;
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake? Around this stanza the fixation becomes visibly more severe. It meanders but the emotions are maturing and arching, which is nice

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke we’re laughing at.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks blown in ’88.
As we’re cutting the cake, your face
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,
I reach out to touch an amputation;
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died. I quite liked most all of your lines. Sorry I'm not more helpful

[penguin]

Thanks, Billy and Addy. I see now which parts need revising. Now the hard bit.

[billy]

looking forward to the edit.

don't forget to have a look in poetry discussion forum....feel free to start a thread or to reply to one

[penguin]

Thanks, Billy. I don't have a lot of spare time at the moment, what with watching football, Euro 2012 an' all, but I've posted a revision - that's probably little better than the original.I'll get more involved when the football's over.

[billy]

football fever can be a biatch

the main edit in the 1st stanza works well, the last line gives a feel that something should be looked at but screw that.
in my 1st piece of feedback i stated something about the tower blocks being blown in 88. and said i felt cheated. after reading the edit i realize how stupid that statement (in connection to this poem was) while it holds true, the fact is the line you wrote has all the explanation needed to know what happened maybe not why or how but that the towers were blown up (probably demolished.) so i'm glad you took no heed of that piece of feedback.

on the last line or two; i think they work okay. but that's not to say the others are wrong good luck with the football

[Aish]

Welcome, penguin.

Since all the heavy lifting has already transpired there isn't really much left to comment on. I think you handled the edit well. The bit about reaching out to touch an amputation really struck me.

[penguin]

Thanks very much, Billy, Aish.I like the last verse very much, I'm very conscious that the rest doesn't match it.

[billy]

i think the last stanza has a connection to the rest of poem which leads up to showing us a physical amputation. (i'd call losing a loved one a physical thing as well as an emotional one.) it also shows us the clocks culmination of a relationship. the end, so to speak, so it works well for me.

[penguin]

Thanks, Billy. I meant that the rest of the poem doesn't match the last verse in terms of quality.