In Promise

[rowens]

I have smoked these fags to the bone;
Egg-shelled my reputation
With cartoned rags, and anglo-igloos.
And I wanted so much to give in to this night.

How I wanted the warm sputters of competent love
To glue paramount inquisitions
To the indispensable parachutes of my plight.
But they will not listen!
Those that love.

You cannot love only a little bit;
But a fella has his moods.
And most is a reflex in the moment of it,
And after that,
Another mood.
Can’t you see that?

Or do I have—to tell you:
Never mind.
What I mean to say is: I don’t know.
That I do know:—But, so do you?
You say so. But in what way is that shown?

You can’t take offence, if I innocently
Murder the docile fitness of your lies.
So, they were lies. With no offence.
But have you not offended my eyes?

A cry is such a clichéd wager.
Some can fake cries. Actors do it.
But you aren’t concerned about that.
You’re assaulted by the real thing.

Yes, I cry, and cut my eyes
Like farts in the dismal,
Jocund fissures of my heart.
But that’s what the word means.

My heart has its cracks,
And above and beyond my literal
Connection, it farts.
Like the rapid fissure of your part,
When rapidly visited by those fiends.

I am a fiend that measures his depths.
And wagers no love that his laughter can’t wed;
—To eyes in the sky, and burps on the can:
I was a fit that coiled after bed.

And you,—
Closeted camerado of the pen,
Could dance such ectopic dangers
That, born of tried and tried
Again measures,
I thought you were my friend.

I thought you were my friend.
I thought you—were my friend,
Again. After all we’d been through.
I shudder to use the word, again.

Was it not immanent in my proposal?







.......................


A couple minor changes.

[billy]

I have smoked these fags to the bone;
Egg-shelled my reputation
With cartoned rags, and anglo-igloos. this line stumped me unless it imeans a house
And I wanted so much to give in to this night.

How I wanted the warm sputters of competent love
To glue its paramount inquisitions
To the indispensable parachutes of my plight.
But they will not listen!
Those that love. it reads really well and it's certainly poetic but it's not giving me anything

You cannot love only a little bit; feels cliche
Because a fella has his moods. this line feels different than the rest of the poem, fella doesn't work for me, the rest of the poem has a old poem feel to it.,
And most is a reflex in the moment of it,
And after that,
Another mood.
Can’t you see that?

Or do I have—to tell you:
Never mind.
What I mean to say is: I don’t know.
That I do know:—But, so do you?
You say so. But in what way is that shown? i like the sonics from the but's in this stanza.

You can’t take offence, if I innocently
Murder the docile fitness of your lies.
So, they were lies. With no offence.
But have you not offended my eyes?

A cry is such a clichéd wager.
Some can fake cries. Actors do it.
But you aren’t concerned about that.
You’re assaulted by the real thing. i

Yes, I cry, and cut my eyes
Like farts in the dismal,
Jocund fissures of my heart.
But that’s what the word means.

My heart has its cracks,
And above and beyond my literal
Connection, it farts.
Like the rapid fissure of your part,
When rapidly visited by those fiends.

I am a fiend that measures his depths.
And wagers no love that his laughter can’t wed;
—To eyes in the sky, and burps on the can:
I was a fit that coiled after bed.

And you,—
Closeted camerado of the pen,
Could dance such ectopic dangers not sure ectopic dangers work.
That, born of tried and tried
Again measures,
I thought you were my friend.

I thought you were my friend.
I thought you—were my friend,
Again. After all we’d been through.
I shutter to use the word, again.

Was it not immanent in my proposal?

it feels like a train of thought rant at not being able to get it down on paper. i kept going back the farting heart for some reason. it has a Shakespearian feel to it and if that was an aim, it succeeded well.
in truth i'm not competent enough to leave any more feedback than i did, and even that is suspect, but it's what i perceived. wish i could be of more help.

[just mercedes]

I have smoked these fags to the bone; great imagery
Egg-shelled my reputation
With cartoned rags, and anglo-igloos.I'm a bit lost here
And I wanted so much to give in to this night.

How I wanted the warm sputters of competent love
To glue its paramount inquisitions
To the indispensable parachutes of my plight. I think there are too many adjectives in these lines
But they will not listen!
Those that love.

You cannot love only a little bit;I like this but wonder if 'bit' is needed?
Because a fella has his moods.
And most is a reflex in the moment of it, are reflexes?
And after that,
Another mood.
Can’t you see that? I like the direct address here

Or do I have—to tell you:
Never mind.
What I mean to say is: I don’t know.
That I do know:—But, so do you?
You say so. But in what way is that shown? This stanza reminds me of T S Eliot - '“That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

You can’t take offence, if I innocently
Murder the docile fitness of your lies.
So, they were lies. With no offence.
But have you not offended my eyes? The form changes here, as if the narrator needs rhyme and meter to express his hurt

A cry is such a clichéd wager.
Some can fake cries. Actors do it.
But you aren’t concerned about that.
You’re assaulted by the real thing. I'm reading 'insulted' - don't know why

Yes, I cry, and cut my eyes
Like farts in the dismal,
Jocund fissures of my heart. Pow! That was unexpected
But that’s what the word means.

My heart has its cracks,
And above and beyond my literal
Connection, it farts.
Like the rapid fissure of your part, I'm not sure of the sense of rapid here
When rapidly visited by those fiends. what fiends? the farts?

I am a fiend that measures his depths.
And wagers no love that his laughter can’t wed;
—To eyes in the sky, and burps on the can:
I was a fit that coiled after bed. I'm unsure what's going on here but like the depths/heights movement and the laughter. A fit here means a needle

And you,—
Closeted camerado of the pen,
Could dance such ectopic dangers Strong expression - gives me the dangers of sex/life
That, born of tried and tried
Again measures,
I thought you were my friend.

I thought you were my friend.
I thought you—were my friend,
Again. After all we’d been through.
I shutter to use the word, again. I like the repetition, almost a chorus of lament - but I think you meant 'shudder'

Was it not immanent in my proposal? again, I like the question directed out

I've read a few of your poems now and l am slowly getting to a stage where I feel I can say something about them

This one has a great texture for me, it feels like something Beckett would write, with its bleak but uncompromising view of the world and relationships between people.

[rowens]

What I was trying to do in the first stanza was present a hermetic experience. And the logic of the lines, as I see it, is I'm an egg, dressed in a carton, living in a cold language. Leading to the next part, where I was packing in all those heavy words that are weighing on the 'parachute of my plight', and I'd hoped that the last two lines of that stanza would give the reader a feeling of relief after all that. In the next stanza, you find me trapped in my dialect. "A little bit" is so commonly said around here, you hear it everyday: and I can't say the word "fellow" without it sounding forced. And I was alluding to multiple men, so that 'most' are many that have the 'relflex' to have sex once then go to the next partner: so that's why I used the singular, though I'm not sure if it works. To skip the boring parts, I was saying that my crying was my heart farting, that I couldn't help it. The 'fiends' are other sex partners that come and go so rapidly; "the rapid fissure of your part"... I didn't want to have to say 'pussy-fart', or something like that. Then I was referring to an idea of a holy, intimate partnership, in all its sacred and crude elements. And basically feeling betrayed. I need to fix 'shudder', I had the 'sputters' of earlier still in mind. I guess I don't shudder very often. Thanks for your thoughts. I'm a stubborn writer.



I try to give poems 'movements' like in music. The symbol of the 'egg' evokes a private universe, since the speaker feels abandoned. And the movements are compressed in the poem, as in a private universe; with various tones and effects. I like to use techniques of effect, like going from elegant to crude, verbose to plain-spoken, personal to impersonal. Here, I'm trapped in somewhat hermetic language, and I want the love in it to be warm, and I hope the person I'm speaking to will give it lots of attention, 'paramount inquisitions', like when they fall in love with every fleeting partner. But since those multiple lovers leave me cold, I'm left speaking out of that egg-shell, in the private language.

[Philatone]

I have smoked these fags to the bone;
Egg-shelled my reputation
With cartoned rags, and anglo-igloos. ...the "with" is throwing me off. I'm taking it as "by means of", but the "igloos" is doesn't work as well...
And I wanted so much to give in to this night.

How I wanted the warm sputters of competent love
To glue its paramount inquisitions
To the indispensable parachutes of my plight....these three lines strike me as sinking in excess. I think they could work more strongly if they were elaborated on; instead, the reader has to accept what the speaker says and move on. for instance: the "inquisitions" receive no focus, "competent love" isn't really explained and somehow is able to "glue" (I'm not convinced that is the right word); what are the parachutes? am I asking too much? yet, if I had answers, I would leave this stanza with a stronger connection to the speaker.
But they will not listen!
Those that love....i think this should be tied more closely to the line above, rather than separated by a period

You cannot love only a little bit;...need the semicolon?
Because a fella has his moods.
And most is a reflex in the moment of it,
And after that,
Another mood.
Can’t you see that?

Or do I have—to tell you:
Never mind....reads like stream of consciousness, but as a reader, it frustrates me a bit with the speaker. perhaps it puts us in the moment with the speaker, but that feels like a weak 'advantage' to me
What I mean to say is: I don’t know.
That I do know:—But, so do you?
You say so. But in what way is that shown?

You can’t take offence, if I innocently....need the comma?
Murder the docile fitness of your lies.
So, they were lies. With no offence.
But have you not offended my eyes?

A cry is such a clichéd wager....i like the idea of this line and the next
Some can fake cries. Actors do it.
But you aren’t concerned about that.
You’re assaulted by the real thing.

Yes, I cry, and cut my eyes
Like farts in the dismal,...maybe i need to apologize (i can understand how it may be appropriate to the piece), but "farts" just distracted me more than anything
Jocund fissures of my heart.
But that’s what the word means.

My heart has its cracks,
And above and beyond my literal
Connection, it farts.
Like the rapid fissure of your part,
When rapidly visited by those fiends...."fiends" wasn't very clear"

I am a fiend that measures his depths.
And wagers no love that his laughter can’t wed; ...wasn't "wager" already used?
—To eyes in the sky, and burps on the can:
I was a fit that coiled after bed....liked this line

And you,—
Closeted camerado of the pen,
Could dance such ectopic dangers
That, born of tried and tried
Again measures,
I thought you were my friend.

I thought you were my friend.
I thought you—were my friend,....perhaps the repetition could be emphasized with different line breaks on each restatement?
Again. After all we’d been through.
I shudder to use the word, again.

Was it not immanent in my proposal?

[rowens]

When I'm happier, I tend to make poems more accessible, and less hermetic. I hope to feel happier, of course. But it helps to get feedback of all sorts on these, where I'm using "postmodern" techniqes in a self-mocking way. I don't like so-called postmodernism. But I'm having it out with it. Thanks for wading the frustration with me a bit.



Basically what I was trying to show in this part

I have smoked these fags to the bone;
Egg-shelled my reputation
With cartoned rags, and anglo-igloos.
And I wanted so much to give in to this night.

How I wanted the warm sputters of competent love
To glue its paramount inquisitions
To the indispensable parachutes of my plight.
But they will not listen!
Those that love.


is that the speaker is living in this womb-like existence of faithfulness, and he's closed in this cold rational world of hermetic self-awareness. His lover causes his abstract intellectual words to clumsily come out in what he hopes are warm sputters that will be taken as seriously and brooded over as intensely as those of other lovers. But he can't "give in to this night", because

You cannot love only a little bit;
Because a fella has his moods.
And most is a reflex in the moment of it,
And after that,
Another mood.
Can’t you see that?


the person he's trying to talk to can't love only a little, they fall deeply in love with everyone that seduces and then leaves them. That's the logic and the effect I'm going for here.