OK skyfire. I love Hide and Seek. It's an intimate, touching poem with excellent imagery. I've been reading it repeatedly for about a week now, trying to find faults. There was one thing which I thought might be improved. Why moon boots and overcoat? I have considered the signiticance of this choice for a while and came to no logical conclusion. Then i thought that as you are hiding, and growing away from being that sweet little girl, maybe you could have chosen leather pumps and micro mini or something like this. There may well be a reason for your choice of moon boots. If there is, I'd love to know. As usual, I enjoyed this poem immensely and am definitely a fan of yours.
wow red, thanks for taking the time with this! uhm...the moon boots and wool overcoat: literally, when i used to play hide and seek with dad, my mom had this big blue pair of marshmallow moon boots from the 80's and i would put my feet in those and put on this wool coat hanging there while it was still on the hanger, so i was virtually invisible and he would have to feel around to find me. figuratively, i wanted the reader to get the feeling like the real me was in a sort of shell...like i've heaped on these layers of lies and secrets and ultimately losing myself in this "other" self. also because wool coats are itchy (not comfortable in own skin), and moon boots are out dated (dont fit in). and that's quite a large dissection of that small part, sorry! i tweaked with the ending a little, i've been trying lately to leave my poetry open instead of closing it down, what do you think?
sylvan...thanks for commenting on my short story, hopefully you find it intriguing enough to finish it! i would love to hear your opinions on it...
blurb... (untitled & unedited) He was the moon tugging on her tides, and he was her ocean's undertow. He was gravity, and she was the sky, her stars fell out like rain. It was magnetic, but their poles lined up to push each other away. She was a rocking chair out in his wind, pitching forward then back, forward then back...
Thanks for the explanation. It makes more sense now. I like the new ending and I like the idea of open ending, leaving the reader to explore. However, I sorta prefer the way the original finished. I enjoyed the return to Daddy's Little Sweetpea. OK, I haven't got a lot of time now but I wanted to offer some thoughts on your prose. There were parts of the story I really liked. You are very good with images. One thing though, I thought that you need to vary the length of the sentences more often. A lot of the sentences were really long, with what I thought was too much information crammed into one line. Sometimes, using some short snappy sentences to break up descriptive passages helps readability and keeps the pace moving. I like the story though and would like to read more when it's done.
thank you bob...do come again some time! coming soon: revisions! of select poems and also my short story, which i am trying to get published so wish me luck...
Chicago's Baby Girl (part 2) *for Lonniyah Nakita Jackson, born 1/24/08 Rest your head on my heart as it's beating writes this lullaby: With your mother's eyes, daddy's lips that make your mother frown, coo's you wish were words, and state checks that buy your diapers, sleep in my bassinet arms. Make a crib in my rib cage of thick skin and warm blood. Safe from daddy's pit bull snarl, mice in grandma's walls, city bus and taxis with no blinkers. Safe from wind that runs off the lake and freezes marrow in your bones till their hollows like crystal'd caves echo your hungry cry. Rest your head here, on my heart, and close those agate eyes, and i will sing you this lullaby.
red...for "Hide and Seek," i had liked the return to Daddy's Sweetpea as well, but ultimately i have decided that there is no return, that little girl is gone. also, i have addressed some of the issues in my short fiction and have expanded it just a little for clarity, so hopefully you will come back and re-read when i post the revisions and lend me your opinion...
Certainly, wow you have changed and added so much... its like a clean and freshly decorated house in here. So far... I'm soaking up the Sun and looking forward to Summer, with thoughts of spending a few hours by the gnarled oak tree under starlit skies.
haha...ok, sounds good, dont read that one too close though, as the edited version is better! I almost have it done!
Twisted Her palms are raw where clenched fingers squish plastic nails into grated skin pocked like footholds on a cliff face with molars ground down, nerves and jaw muscles frayed from wearing each other. Even boas can only constrict so tight like rusted steel springs coiling before pinching their own belly, and the air tastes like wet sulfur on the tip of a wandering tongue.
Hello! Well, I don't mean to hijack your thread or anything, but I would like to say thanks for noticing my poems. Your comments are appreciated, even if I'm not so good at responding. So I thought I owed you a critique as well. First of all, there is no doubt in my mind that you have a talent for constructing evocative images and mesmerizing phrases. Going through this thread, I found all kinds of excellent lines and ideas... lots of nature imagery, evoking all kinds of fantastic emotions and feelings.... hopelessness, love, lust, sadness, longing, melancholy... a rich spectrum of images which effectively conjure up the exact mood you were aiming for. Second, I am impressed by your commitment to your writing. There is no doubt in my mind that you have your own vision and your own style and you aren't afraid to try new devices or new mediums. It's always good to be open to experimentation... I found some of the poems where you didn't rely so much on florid imagery to be just as engaging as the ones in which you let loose the inner sensorium (not sure if that's a valid word, but it's one that somehow springs to mind). I was intrigued by the opening lines to your 'National Geographic' poem... they were direct and arrestingly harsh, and I expected it to become a character study, or to make some insightful statement about what passes for empathy in privileged Western society, but then it seemed to lose its objectivity and descend into a rather bland indictment of topical magazine culture and superficiality. This seemed really unfortunate to me, because the opening lines were so fantastic, and created an interesting character for me right away. I could already see her bedroom, her gestures, her lifestyle etc. There were also some fantastic lines about war and suffering in there, but they were spoiled by the simplistic and callous guilt-tripping that followed. I liked the 'Twisted' one... actually, the first time through I didn't get it but then I thought about it and read it again and put it together and now I think it's really quite good. I like that it starts off as a description of hands, becomes a description of a boa, and then adds a bit about sulfur-tasting air as a strange kind of twist. I liked the whole 'Chicago's baby girl' thing... if only because all the internal organ imagery made me think that perhaps the baby hadn't been born yet, and it was a song sung to someone who was about to come to life. Not sure if that's what was intended. On the other hand, I didn't like the end part where you reiterated the bit about the lullaby, and some of it seemed a little too cute for a big macho tough guy like me. That also goes for the one about being Daddy's girl... but that could be just my personal tastes. Another standout was the one about losing your friend (Pantoum to Joshua) It struck me as if a mind trying to make sense of what had happened by rearranging the pieces over and over... awesome, great idea, good lines. I had written this big long thing with some suggestions but now I realize that I missed a lot on my first time through and that some of your poems do have a really subtle logic to them that is easy to miss... well, at least for pompous jerks like me who think they can get everything the first time through. So basically, I really don't think you need much guidance or critique... you seem to know what you're doing. Also, it makes the positive comments I got from you on some of my poems feel like there's a lot more weight behind them. So, thanks... and good luck!
how i feel about my homework right now: 1500 Words There are supposed to be 1500 words in my head on Victorian Poetry, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, free thinking innovators of changing times. There are supposed to be 1500 words on content and form, on theme and convention, on their connections. There are supposed to be 1500 words in my head on Charles Dickens, Pip's Great Expectations, the rise and fall through English classes. On scene and plot and social commentary. There are supposed to be 1500 words on these blank pages by midnight, but there is not a single syllable to be found in this mess of letters in my head... (ok, so its not the most sound or concrete of poems, but seriously, screw British Literature Survey classes)
Meth Heads in My Living Room Their eyes jitterbugged around their heads, following a soundless two-step across living room walls smoke stained yellow. Gargoyles. Perched on a sweaty couch for days, stuck in the seconds. Glass bulb spun red-hot, a twirling top, they shifted in circles. They picked like monkeys with fleas; cannibals by way of an oral fixation. When the symphony stopped, strings snapped and woodwinds winded, they slept in jitters. Woke up hating the sun. And yes, it was me who called the bats down from the attic. I hid in the shadows. And I, I made sure to tip-toe to their strung-out percussion, to not interrupt their rhythm...
Raped The earth tilted today, heavy head went limp on broken neck, now eyes see sideways. And there he is clinging to the trees, pulling at roots for a better hold, wormed with fingers and toes, a cancer in the dirt. The earth retches. A woodtick with its fill, he lets go and falls away. "I like the way you smell," he had said. Dirt falls loose where he dug. I close my sideways eyes and it all dies...
Hi Heywood, thank you for spending some time in my thread! I appreciate your compliments! you know...with this one i was pretty stuck. i know it sucks and i played with it so much and i never got it to say anything. that's why its an exercise in melodramatics right now. what you said is helpful, though, i havent gotten any real critique on that one and i needed someone to tell me what was wrong with it! i will probably be revisiting it soon, so thank you! which parts seemed "cute?" especially in "Hide and Seek," i'd rather it not be a cute poem and would like to address that. thank for this comment, that poem is really close to my heart. haha...suggest away! i'm open to critique and criticism, and i have tough skin so i can take it! again, i appreciate your comments and thanks for taking the time! a good reader is so valuable
(revised version) Falling Apart I'm a clay sculpture crumbling, ear-nose-finger plink and fling, pebbles from under car tires. A water-color painting showered by museum sprinklers, eyelashes-lips-bellybutton melt to the marbled floor. An origami paper swan with edges not creased quite tight, knees-knuckles-elbows unfold. I'm the paintbrush soaking in turpentine, eyes-skin-hair bleed their dyes. If I dabbled in art, my forte would be falling apart.
I completely love this. It sounds like what I imagine the inside of my brain is like when I have a hangover. And I'm trying to tiptoe around, so as not to flip myself out. Wonderful imagery.
