Muninn REV 11-25-12

[Todd]

Revision 2

The world did not start in steps of ice.
I remember the long night,
with a pin-prick of fire, that didn't cease
swirling: an ever expanding corkscrew.
You were not there.

I am the grift behind your secret
omniscience, the truth
of your ruined face, this pretension
and prayer, the ego
of unmerited godhead.

Joined in this unkindness,
I have tasted the slave song,
grasped the limp hand of the stillborn.
Yet, my words are not flint to spark
the hanged god’s ear.

So like murder: a black flutter,
tiny footsteps of regret.
There is an eye under the water
that I would pluck out
to avoid this pointless journey.

I am an echo as buildings rise
and fall, and stories drift
around your unlit hearth—
kindling from the damned tree.

It frightens you to hear their prayers,
when I am the final outcome.
The stars remain cold,
and all your sons die.
I alone remain to stir the ashes.


Revision

The world did not start in steps of ice.
I remember the long night,
with a pin-prick of fire, that didn't cease
swirling: an ever expanding corkscrew.
You were not there.

I am the grift behind your secret
omniscience, the truth
of your ruined face, this pretension
and prayer, the ego
of unmerited godhead.

Joined in this unkindness,
I have tasted the slave song,
grasped the limp hand of the stillborn.
Yet, my words are not flint to spark
against the hanged god’s ear.

So like murder: a black flutter,
tiny footsteps of regret.
There is an eye under the water
that I would pluck out
to avoid this pointless journey.

I see your excitement and can only
echo it. The buildings rise
and fall. The stories drone
around your unlit hearth of tradition—
kindling from the damned tree.

It frightens you to hear their prayers,
when I am the final outcome.
The stars remain cold,
and all your sons die.
I alone remain to stir the ashes.


(Revised from the Poetry Practice)
~~~

Original

The world did not start in steps of ice.
I remember the long night,
as a pin prick of fire, that didn’t cease
burning in an ever expanding corkscrew:
You were not there.

I am the grift behind your secret
omniscience, the truth
of your ruined face, this pretension
and prayer, the ego of godhead:
questions that never had answers.

Joined in this unkindness,
I have tasted the slave song,
grasped the limp hand of the stillborn.
Yet, my words are not flint to strike sparks
against the hanged god’s ear.

So like murder: a black flutter,
tiny footsteps of regret.
There is an eye under the water
that I would pluck out
to avoid this pointless journey.

I see your excitement and can only
echo it. The buildings rise
and fall. The stories drone
around your unlit hearth of tradition—
kindling from the damned tree.

You look to the stars.
Yet, I am the answer to all these prayers.
Your son will die. All dreams burn:
I alone remain
to stir the ashes.

[Lawrence]

The last stanza greatly damaged what I believe to be your best poem on here. I was entranced until the end. "All dreams burn" "I am the answer to all these prayers" and "Stir the ashes" seem weak and semi-cliche.

I'll go more into detail in a bit.

[Todd]

Wow! Best poem on here (wouldn't have thunk it ). Thanks Lawrence I'll give the last stanza some thought. I look forward to your further comments.

Best,

Todd

---

Maybe something like this Lawrence (so far I can't think of anything I like better than stir the ashes at the end--though almost anything can be cut). Optional Last stanza:

It frightens you to hear their prayers,
when I am the final outcome.
The stars remain cold,
and all your sons die.
I alone remain to stir the ashes.

[billy]

(Revised from the Poetry Practice)
~~~
The world did not start in steps of ice.
I remember the long night,
as a pin prick of fire, that didn’t cease
burning in an ever expanding corkscrew:
You were not there.

I am the grift behind your secret
omniscience, the truth
of your ruined face, this pretension
and prayer, the ego of godhead:
questions that never had answers. [feels a little cliché]

Joined in this unkindness,
I have tasted the slave song,
grasped the limp hand of the stillborn.
Yet, my words are not flint to strike sparks [i love these two line but i struggle]
against the hanged god’s ear. [with hanged god, i don't no of one, i do understand you mean christ (i think) but he wasn't hung as such he was nailed]

So like murder: a black flutter,
tiny footsteps of regret.
There is an eye under the water
that I would pluck out
to avoid this pointless journey. [for me this stanza feels a little vague. reads really good but feels vague, could just be me though]

I see your excitement and can only
echo it. The buildings rise
and fall. The stories drone
around your unlit hearth of tradition—
kindling from the damned tree. [i love this stanza. though wonder if a play on words might work;
kindling from the tree; damned]

You look to the stars. [feels cliche]
Yet, I am the answer to all these prayers. [what prayers?]
Your son will die. All dreams burn:
I alone remain
to stir the ashes.[are the last two lines needed?]

i enjoyed the poem and
the pace of it. it did show that rules can sometimes hinder a poem. this is much better, some good images and well worth the read. the first three stanza worked well and i could see little that for me was in need of an edit in them.jmo

thanks for the read

[Todd]

Hi Billy,

Thanks for the comments. I think some of the vagueness would be cleared up if the right diety is picked (it's not christ think more viking) but I get where you are coming from. The questions line I see what you mean. The ending, yeah Lawrence also keyed on that and I'm probably going to placeholder the one I pasted to him into a working revision. Thank you again--very helpful.

Best,

Todd

[Todd]

I'm not sure how I feel about the stir the ashes line. I did think of a way to change it if it is really problematic...I'll continue giving it some thought.

[billy]

Revision

The world did not start in steps of ice.
I remember the long night,
as a pin-prick of fire, that didn’t cease
burning in an ever expanding corkscrew:
You were not there.

I am the grift behind your secret
omniscience, the truth
of your ruined face, this pretension
and prayer, the ego
of unmerited godhead. [for me it feels much better this way]

Joined in this unkindness,
I have tasted the slave song,
grasped the limp hand of the stillborn.
Yet, my words are not flint to strike sparks
against the hanged god’s ear.

So like murder: a black flutter,
tiny footsteps of regret.
There is an eye under the water
that I would pluck out
to avoid this pointless journey.

I see your excitement and can only
echo it. The buildings rise
and fall. The stories drone
around your unlit hearth of tradition—
kindling from the damned tree.

It frightens you to hear their prayers,
when I am the final outcome.
The stars remain cold,
and all your sons die.
I alone remain to stir the ashes. [i think this verse is much stronger with the change in the first line. as for the last line, only you can really know what you feel about it. it doesn't spoil the poem but for me it doesn't really add anything per say]

a small but well done edit.

[Todd]

Thanks for the re-look Billy. Editing is always a crap shoot (or crap I guess)

[Todd]

Put a rewrite up for this one.

[billy]

Revision 2

The world did not start in steps of ice.
I remember the long night,
with a pin-prick of fire, that didn't cease
swirling: an ever expanding corkscrew.
You were not there.

I am the grift behind your secret
omniscience, the truth
of your ruined face, this pretension
and prayer, the ego
of unmerited godhead.

Joined in this unkindness,
I have tasted the slave song,
grasped the limp hand of the stillborn.
Yet, my words are not flint to spark
the hanged god’s ear. much tighter

So like murder: a black flutter,
tiny footsteps of regret.
There is an eye under the water
that I would pluck out
to avoid this pointless journey.

I am an echo as buildings rise this has much more power, it's a consciousness on Odin's shoulder
and fall, and stories drift
around your unlit hearth—
kindling from the damned tree.

It frightens you to hear their prayers,
when I am the final outcome.
The stars remain cold,
and all your sons die.
I alone remain to stir the ashes.

i like the gradual edits you've done with this todd, not massive but everything altered played it's part in the polishing. special in the 5th stanza. in which you make munin's role apparent as a builder of memories.

[Todd]

Thanks Billy! I sort of hated this one for over a year. I'm starting to like it. I appreciate the comments.