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Demiurge named Entropy (re-write)
| Critical Analysis #2 |
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Demiurge named Entropy (re-write) |
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sampo Member
since 2007-02-25
Posts 54oz |
Things fall apart: the center cannot hold. - Yeats. The sun was drowned in its basement tide. Some men were dregs, spun: expired on cul-de-sac paths. Most had dragged themselves into their chosen skies: god-soaked sky, divided into star-compartments. Divides them still. Caves were stuffed full of husks of human, draped in shells: insides streaked with moss. Tsunami-eyed, they stained the world in weeds, then crashed upon the cliff. Hid themselves in pieces. Made the world cease every time they blinked. No time- platter: this second is no banquet, but a rusted garden harvest, dry as the stranded moon. Metallic blooms. Emptied wombs. Spawned on the floor. Infant chaos, birthed and dispersed. Repeat - until the distance is too vast. Ash in the eye of the spiral: divinity best be a phoenix. |
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| © Copyright 2007 sampo - All Rights Reserved | |||
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viking_metal Senior Member
since 2007-02-02
Posts 1337In a Jeep, Minnesota. |
Befuddled. |
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Brad Member Ascendant
since 1999-08-20
Posts 5705Jejudo, South Korea |
Wow. I like this, but your linebreaks are rather offputting. Maybe or more traditional approach would create a stronger poem? Still, powerful stuff. I forgot to add. Maybe try a different image than the phoenix at the end -- it's a little overused for my taste. |
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JenniferMaxwell
since 2006-09-14
Posts 2423 |
I love the originality of your images. |
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Roysie Member
since 2007-08-05
Posts 102Canada |
William Butler Yeats...breathtaking writer When You Are Old When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. Oh to be able to write like that. |
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moonbeam
since 2005-12-24
Posts 2356 |
Somebody else used that Yeats quote a lonnnng time ago, eh Brad? I agree with all of Brad and Jennifer's comments, although the weird line breaks become almost hypnotic after a while like a wave reaching its crest and then pausing momentarily before crashing down into meaning. I started to quite like the effect. Another thing I like was the Dylanesque aura, the opening especially was reminiscent of him. Maybe The Boys of Summer: I See the Boys of Summer by Dylan Thomas I I see the boys of summer in their ruin Lay the gold tithings barren, Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils; There in their heat the winter floods Of frozen loves they fetch their girls, And drown the cargoed apples in their tides. These boys of light are curdlers in their folly, Sour the boiling honey; The jacks of frost they finger in the hives; There in the sun the frigid threads Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves; The signal moon is zero in their voids. I see the summer children in their mothers Split up the brawned womb's weathers, Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs; There in the deep with quartered shades Of sun and moon they paint their dams As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads. I see that from these boys shall men of nothing Stature by seedy shifting, Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts; There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse Of love and light bursts in their throats. O see the pulse of summer in the ice. II But seasons must be challenged or they totter Into a chiming quarter Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars; There, in his night, the black-tongued bells The sleepy man of winter pulls, Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows. We are the dark derniers let us summon Death from a summer woman, A muscling life from lovers in their cramp From the fair dead who flush the sea The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp And from the planted womb the man of straw. We summer boys in this four-winded spinning, Green of the seaweeds' iron Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds, Pick the world's ball of wave and froth To choke the deserts with her tides, And comb the county gardens for a wreath. In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly, Heigh ho the blood and berry, And nail the merry squires to the trees; Here love's damp muscle dries and dies Here break a kiss in no love's quarry, O see the poles of promise in the boys. III I see you boys of summer in your ruin. Man in his maggots barren. And boys are full and foreign to the pouch. I am the man your father was. We are the sons of flint and pitch. O see the poles are kissing as they cross. Quite a bit of the diction is similar and where it isn't it still resonates. Its weakness imh is the choppiness that it starts to degenerate into in the latter part of the poem. There's simply a jumble of sentence fragments and statements without a great deal to bind them together. I accept that in a poem dealing with entropy and "flying apart" this may be an intentional ploy to create an effect, but nevertheless it feels as if you gave up thinking three quarters of the way through. I had something else to say but I've forgotten. Bbl if I remember. M PS I forgot to say that I hate the close. As well as the overused "phoenix", the words "best be" cheapen the whole poem. |
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sampo Member
since 2007-02-25
Posts 54oz |
Thanks for the crits and the poems. Obviously, Yeats has had a lasting effect. Very few poets I've read can use abstractions to such an effect. And Dylan's use of alliteration and imagery is something I attempt to emulate, often to the detriment of what it is I'm trying to convey. Alas, the phoenix has to go and not get back up this time. And line-breaks seem to be a major stumbling block all round here. Will have to focus on those next revision. Thanks again. Much appreciated. Regards, sampo. |
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