A Multitude of Sins

[penguin]

Revised version

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave that lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass,
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked
through rotten teeth and hollow cheeks.

Talking is easier.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech.

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and voluntary organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now and hear you praise
Around the World in Eighty Days,
hand me your heavily annotated copy –
and I the reluctant will’s beneficiary
hearing tell how your father died too early,
how wicked and unworthy you were,
how little you desired or deserved to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer.

Like a priest inside a confessional
I asked you to itemise your sins,
just so I could tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies.
Hardly hanging offences, I stated,
you must be a saint or simply
don’t get out very much.

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle and cuts
your neck purple; the angle
of your shoulders, veins bulging,
eyes popping, pleading and waiting
for five or six days on life support, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.

Original

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave that lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass,
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked
through rotten teeth and hollow cheeks.

Talking is easier.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech.

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and Voluntary Organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now as your tales disturb me -
how your father died too early,
how wicked and unworthy you were,
how little you desired or deserved to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer.

Like a priest inside a confessional
I asked you to itemise your sins,
so I could tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies!
Hardly hanging offences, I stated,
you must be a saint
or simply don’t get out very much -
waiting for the laughed response.
Waiting…

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle
and cuts your neck purple, the angle
of your purple shoulders, veins bulging
purple, eyes popping purple
for five or six days on life support;
pleading for an end to purple, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.

[billy]

i did a quick once over and liked it a lot, will give some solid feedback in the morning cos i have to go out tonight .

[Erthona]

It is interesting, although I found some parts confusing as to who was being spoken of. I'm not sure of the first stanza and what it's purpose is other than allowing you to use the first line of the second stanza. Is the first stanza suppose to be about the co-worker who commits suicide?

Dale

[Philatone]

hey ray
my initial thoughts

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave a lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass, ...i got confused with this "like" with what is being compared. the sins? the scraping? i'm not entirely sure what is "like" the blades of grass...er, "glass". on another note, "blades of g_ass" is easy probably going to take readers down the wrong path
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked. ...similar issues for me
His dignity, the staff nurse ticked –
Dignity and Choice, the Holy Script,
but his fingers were all done picking. ..not sure what this line meant (not looking for an explanation, just stating). self-mutilation?
I gritted teeth at his hollow cheeks, ...nice detail
as his eyes followed and his mouth spoke,
then grabbed at a skinful of liquid relief: ...who grabs? the answer affects the next few lines...
an all- day binge designed to scrub
the pallor and stink of stubble and death
from under my fingernails, off my breath.

Talking is easier. ....i'm taking that wat follows is the conversation between these guys
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech.

I sit beside it now. ...this is a detail outside of the conversation i'm gathering. but, what is the it? at first, it feels like the plant. does the conversation return after (e.g., the speaker just talking to the patient) or is it just the speaker's reflection?
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and Voluntary Organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now and hear you praise
Around the World in Eighty Days,
urge me to read it – I did, it was rubbish –
and tell how your father died so early,
how wicked and unworthy you are,
how little you desire or deserve to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer. ...as in, the patient wants to be comforted, in a way?

Like a priest inside a confessional
I ask you to itemise your sins,
so I can tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies!
Hardly hanging offences, I state,
you must be a saint or simply
don’t get out very much.
Waiting for the responsive laugh.
Waiting…

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle
and cuts your neck purple, the angle ...how long has this been happening for? the entire time? while he's been explaining sins and saying how good the book was?
of your purple shoulders, veins bulging
purple, eyes popping purple
for five or six days on life support;
pleading for an end to purple, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard. ...what beard? the stubble on his face?

i'm having a trouble with place; initially, I was thinking hospital (staff nurse, lounge) but it could also be a house. i also am getting a bit confused on several parts, though I'm blaming my own reading more than anything. I have to come back to this and see if I have new insights

[billy]

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave a lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass, the two simile work well together, bugger, i read it as grass. now i'm not so sure
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked.
His dignity, the staff nurse ticked –
Dignity and Choice, the Holy Script, this and the next two lines feel awkward in that they're hard to follow
but his fingers were all done picking,
I gritted teeth at his hollow cheeks,
as his eyes followed and his mouth spoke,
then grabbed at a skinful of liquid relief:
an all- day binge designed to scrub
the pallor and stink of stubble and death good image.
from under my fingernails, off my breath.

Talking is easier.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech. great stanza but i can't connect it to the 1st except as a memory

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and Voluntary Organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now and hear you praise
Around the World in Eighty Days,
urge me to read it – I did, it was rubbish –
and tell how your father died so early,
how wicked and unworthy you are,
how little you desire or deserve to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer.

Like a priest inside a confessional
I ask you to itemise your sins,
so I can tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies!
Hardly hanging offences, I state,
you must be a saint or simply
don’t get out very much.
Waiting for the responsive laugh.
Waiting…

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle
and cuts your neck purple, the angle
of your purple shoulders, veins bulging
purple, eyes popping purple
for five or six days on life support;
pleading for an end to purple, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.

hi ray

i stopped doing the usual line by...
i saw and read some great images, some really good lines of poetry but i couldn't read them in an ordered way. it could be and probably is just me but i kept getting lost inside the piece. i'm sure only a small edits would be needed to add a little more clarity to it.

thanks for the read.

[penguin]

Thanks, guys. I've made some alterations, mostly to the 1st verse.
First verse had more detail than it merited.I like the transition to "Talking is easier" though, so I need something.
The poem is about a patient I knew who killed himself and mostly it's me speaking to this dead person, though the 1st verse is reflecting upon a previous death I witnessed.I was a student nurse and had to shave this dead guy and I found it a very distressing experience - the scrape of blades of glass, the chalk, the squeak, is an attempt to portray that....badly, it seems!

Talking is easier (to dead bodies) than handling them.

I sit beside it now - "it" is the plant.

your refusal to take yes for an answer. - a very negative attitude.

The last verse is a reflection on his suicide, which wasn't entirely successful. He spent several days on life support, his beard growing longer.

[tectak]

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave that lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass,
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked
through rotten teeth and hollow cheeks. Unreservedly excelent stuff.If the reader has no first hand knowledge of what you are taliking about, he, like me, will be drawn right in. VG opener.

Talking is easier.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech.

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and Voluntary Organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now as your tales disturb me - Though deliberately deliberate, the repetition of "I sit beside it now" is not a success. Possibly made worse by the use of "as". Meaning concurrently or conditionally? A little shaky, but just a little.
how your father died too early,
how wicked and unworthy you were,
how little you desired or deserved to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer. It is hard to punctuate this effectively and so you chose not to. You may be right, though it pains me to say it!

Like a priest inside a confessional
I asked you to itemise your sins,
so I could tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies!
Hardly hanging offences, I stated,
you must be a saint
or simply don’t get out very much -
waiting for the laughed response.
Waiting…

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle
and cuts your neck purple, the angle
of your purple shoulders, veins bulging
purple, eyes popping purple
for five or six days on life support;
pleading for an end to purple, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.

A truly intimate and stirring read. This is as good as it gets in this kind of domestic environment. I can read this often but I will still enjoy it as though it is a first read. There is a sense of betrayal which I cannot finger, particularly as there is a character switch in the last line. Normally, I would ask for an explanation, but in this case not knowing is surel better than knowing
Best,
tectak

[don miguel]

Hi Penguin. I think there's a very good poem lurking in here. I didn't read the first version, so can't comment on how it's been improved, but I think some further editing would improve things even more. It's certainly a better poem than is promised by the clichéd title, so I think you should consider changing that.

For me, the poem begins with the second stanza. It sounds brutal, but I'd cut the first stanza all together. Like others, I found myself too caught up with questioning the phraseology and imagery (why break the first line at 'since' and not the more effective 'bodies'? How can one 'scrape off sins'? – that's too abstract. Is describing the face of a dead person as 'lifeless' necessary? etc…)

I'm reminded of some advice I was given by a published poet when he questioned something I'd written which he said didn't sound right. I argued that what I'd written was what happened. 'Just because it's true or actually happened, doesn't mean it should be in a poem' he said, before reminding me that 'poem' means 'a thing made'. Is the first stanza benefitting the poem, or have you included it more because you wanted to?

'Talking is easier' makes for a great opening line, and is strong enough to stand on its own without the first stanza. For me, it says so much in so few words; communicates without necessarily being specifically understood. Which all sounds like poetry to me. And the tone, language and imagery of this stanza I found to be spot-on. I'm reminded of Hugo Williams's crystal-clear style here (particularly with the adverb 'heartily', which is perhaps the only thing helped by the first stanza as it picks up the body imagery; without it, it is a bit weaker).

However, it's a strong voice – a voice I'm willing to listen to; and you can hear a touch of unspoken wistfulness, so I feel things are going to get darker. I think the weaker points in the poem – particularly in the last stanza – are weaker because they move away from this voice and become too emotional.

Some smaller issues:
* I'd watch the 'ears' image – how do ears 'absorb smoke'? But I loved the line about 'stealing secrets'.
* I found 'unwanted items of furniture' a bit too prosaic, but enjoyed the notion of their 'rehabilitation'. Just 'unwanted furniture'?
* I'm not keen on 'this antiquated listening device' as an appositional phrase for the plant – it's a bit too cheesy, if you'll excuse the pun (it sounds like a cheese plant to me, at any rate).
* I wasn't sure of all the Capital Letters in the third stanza – are they all proper nouns, or can you do without them?
* Exclamation marks are always hard in poetry (unless you're Daljit Nagra!!!) so I'd drop the one in the fourth stanza.

Stanzas 4 and 5 get a bit slack for me, and I think you need to be careful that emotions don't take precedence over the poetry of this section. I know that's hard to do if this is based on experience, but I found phrases like 'hardly hanging offences', and 'don't get out much' too colloquial, and lacking the control evident in the second stanza.

In the last stanza, I really think you need to remove all the references to 'purple' and find another way around this. It comes across as bathetic, and that's not good given the subject. Revisit stanza two and try to describe this in the same voice – quiet, calm, considered, mature; not prone to cranking up the rhetoric to wring out emotion – the emotion will be there anyway given the subject, just have a bit more confidence in your writing that it will be expressed without having to be so direct. Let the reader do the emoting, as it were. If you can achieve that, then you'll have a far stronger poem on your hands. It might not be easy if this is something written from experience, but this might be one you need to lay aside for some time and revisit later, rather than hurriedly revise for the forum.

Hope that helps in some way. Cheers, dm.

[penguin]

Thanks, Tectak. I decided to alter the 1st and 4th verses fairly radically. I'm ok with 1st verse now but the 4th one is crap, I think.You are correct, there is a sense of betrayal

Thanks, Dom Miguel.The title I'm ok with, it provides a link from beginning to end. And I need the beginning, I think. Talking must be easier than something.
I agree with your published poet's advice and the 1st verse as was led the reader off on a futile tangent. Now I think I have what's required

"I found 'unwanted items of furniture' a bit too prosaic, but enjoyed the notion of their 'rehabilitation'. Just 'unwanted furniture'? - the setting was a Rehab institution. I think I'd lose the rhythm without "items of".
I think it was a cheese plant. Unfortunately, I think I do require capitals except maybe for voluntary organisations.
I think you're right about 4th and 5th verses, especially 4th and as you suggest I might give this poem some time to recover.
The purpleness, yes, it seemed a good idea at one time but I think I'll be quite happy to leave it out.
I don't think it is a case, by the way, of emotions overriding craft.
Anyhow, very helpful, thanks.

[billy]

i'm doing this from memory as you didn't post the original with which to compare it. The ideal way is to place the original in quotes, and put the edit with an edit number (1st edit, or 2nd edit etc.) above the edit your adding to the post. then tell us all below you did an edit

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave that lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass,
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked
through rotten teeth and hollow cheeks. the cuts in this verse make a huge difference.

Talking is easier. This also seems to work better now that i wasn't held up in the 1st.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech. the anthropomorphism in this stanza works really well. specially the last three lines. a bit of good imagery as well. (something i missed in the first few reads because i couldn't get past that first stanza)

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and Voluntary Organisations. this last one is too generic for caps.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device. i really think i get this, i have a friend who spills her guts to rose plants

I sit beside it now as your tales disturb me -
how your father died too early,
how wicked and unworthy you were,
how little you desired or deserved to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer. this stanza doesn't feel like it adds anything

Like a priest inside a confessional
I asked you to itemise your sins,
so I could tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies!
Hardly hanging offences, I stated,
you must be a saint
or simply don’t get out very much -
waiting for the laughed response.
Waiting…

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle
and cuts your neck purple, the angle very poignant to this point
of your purple shoulders, veins bulging
purple, eyes popping purple too many purples, the 1st was excellent then it got much of a sameness
for five or six days on life support;
pleading for an end to purple, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.strong ending.

some of the images are excellent as is a lot of the narrative. the biggest nit i had was all the purples. it weakened what till then was a great read.
it was a refreshing yet saddening read and i really liked it. the edit was a big big improvement

[penguin]

Thanks again, Billy. Yeah, the purples must go and the 4th verse mended. I will.
I have to say I have a problem looking at all the different edits of a poem. I'm quite happy for a person to view what I've got now and forget what's gone before. Otherwise, it's too time-consuming, too much like hard work. Philatone's elephant poem is a case in point - too much to wade through.

[billy]

then we can't judge how well it's progressed.
one option is to wait for lots of feedback and do an edit if you think it warranted, then leave it a month or so and go back to see if there's any more feedback. Geoff i think prefers the gradual edits which lead him and his poetry to where it wants to be. there's no real way, it's just that having something to weigh it against stops us looking like idiots for liking something we previously decried

find your own path my child and it will lead you to where you need to be

[penguin]

I've done a revised version of the poem and that's as good as it gets for now. I need a break from this poem!

I take your point, Billy. I shall try to be more user-friendly in future.

[billy]

Revised version

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave that lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass,
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked
through rotten teeth and hollow cheeks.

Talking is easier.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech.

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and voluntary organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now and hear you praise
Around the World in Eighty Days, this brings the person into our lives
hand me your heavily annotated copy – i saw the comma after days, but it doesn't stop this line feeling more like a question, a 'and' at the beginning would make the transition easier to see.
and I the reluctant will’s beneficiary
hearing tell how your father died too early,
how wicked and unworthy you were,
how little you desired or deserved to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer.

Like a priest inside a confessional
I asked you to itemise your sins,
just so I could tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies.
Hardly hanging offences, I stated,
you must be a saint or simply
don’t get out very much.

Now I see how the brown leather belt is this present or pats tense?
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle and cuts
your neck purple; the angle
of your shoulders, veins bulging,
eyes popping, pleading and waiting
for five or six days on life support, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.

reads much better without the extra purples and allows me to have a better affinity with (i think) your (the 1st person's father.) a much improved poem. looking forward to seeing it reposted in a few months time