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moonbeam
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0 posted 2008-09-11 05:40 AM


Giving

A day later he still felt the whorl of her fingertip
on his cheek; she carried the weight of his kiss
lightly.  

He took her to the woods to hear the sunrise.
For her a nightingale had held its breath all night.

He broke a nail to thread his house  
onto her key ring.  She offered him the sacrifice
of her mother's heart.

She gave him her childhood to treasure.
He gave her nearly all of his.

Every evening she unlocked the sunlight from butter,
wheat and cheese; spread it before him on a plain beech platter.
He ate, and allowed her to caress the sheen of salary
on his skin.

He wanted to fly.  She gave him gauntlet and jess, then an icon
of brushed wind and steel.  He unrolled a burst of Persia
before her fire.  They ignited it.

Then he bought her a second skin of lace,
and loved it better.  She laid in a crate or two -
hops twined down his throat.  She laid in a case or two -
vine and hop tangled in his head.

Her face was canvas.  He bought an artist to paint a new one:
a halo of frozen sherbet, molasses piped in a thin scroll
above two pontefract cakes.  Each side a blush of marshmallow,
two cut strips of red liquorice, lobes studded with gilded cloves.

He said she was not herself.

She packed his charges tight to a fist, and flung it.
He squeezed her misery, collected a brackish gourd, and lobbed it.
They were blown apart and drowned.


© Copyright 2008 moonbeam - All Rights Reserved
JenniferMaxwell
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1 posted 2008-09-11 01:21 PM


Wow, Ms. Moonbeam, one amazing piece of writing! You’ve been hiding your Dark under a bushel far too long!

Your metaphors and images are perfection, very original, edgy, though the marshmallow/red licorice one seems a bit wordy and is hard for me to grasp. But I do love the “lobes studded with gilded with cloves.”


Sorry for the lunch hour quickly, but I’ll be back.

Bob K
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since 2007-11-03
Posts 4208

2 posted 2008-09-11 07:38 PM




Dear Moonbeam,

           Mixed feelings about this, MB.  Firstly, your competence shows in the way you kick things off, mid action, and in the way you try to keep things going; there's a good sense of drive and motion to the whole thing, a tilt to it and a push.

     I was immediately disoriented by your lineation, right from stanza one.  While I was charmed by the motion and the antiphonal structure, I simply felt that something had to be done to get "she carried the the weight of his kiss lightly[.]" onto another line.  It seems clear to me that you really want things this way, however, and I don't have a feeling for the why of it.  I'd go:  

A day later he still felt the whorl of her fingertip on his cheek;
she carried the weight of his kiss lightly.  

     Hearing the sunrise is nice.  I'm not so enamoured of the structure of line two, where you have "For her" at the beginning.  I think I want it after "breath," though I'm not absolutely sure.  I like the way you are playing against expectation that the parallelisms be more or less absolute.  I think that's canny.

He took her to the woods to hear the sunrise.
For her a nightingale had held its breath all night.

     Once again, pour moi, the problem with lineation.  I feel more comfortable with either:

He broke a nail to thread his house onto her key ring.  
She offered him the sacrifice of her mother's heart.

or:

He broke a nail to thread his house  
onto her key ring.  She offered him
the sacrifice of her mother's heart.

     Certainly you'll have your own fine reasons for the way you've got it.

     I really enjoy the next couplet; it's witty and brief.  The poem is being reasonably graceful as it takes note of the increasing weight of obligation in both directions and it seems even-handed as it does so.  This is so-o-o-o-o hard to do, I can't help but admire your skill here.

She gave him her childhood to treasure.
He gave her nearly all of his.

     Once again, my problem is with the lineation, which I find cramped and difficult.  The relationship may have had such qualities, but I believe that a distinction needs to be drawn between the relationship and the poem about the relationship, which shows all the signs of beings graceful, flowing, kind and open, even in its difficult ending.  This part, this cooking and money section, is particularly graceful and fine.  Please don't crowd it.

Every evening she unlocked the sunlight from butter, wheat and cheese;
spread it before him on a plain beech platter.
He ate, and allowed her to caress the sheen of salary on his skin.

     I run into more substantive issues here with understanding, especially calling a persian rug "a burst of Persia."  Calling the fire at this point "her" fire seems to be anticipating disaster a bit too eagerly.  Their cooperation in igniting the"burst of Persia" seems too obscure to visualize, and it needs to be made more solid, should you decide to leave it in.  I'd do it a bit differently, as by now you are probably ruefully telling yourself, no doubt I'm about to show you.  Sorry.

He wanted to fly.  
She gave him gauntlet and jess, then an icon of brushed wind and steel.  

     I simply don't get the booze part of it, and I think it should come out.  It feels as though it comes from a different dimensions of reality than the other stuff, more of a direct translation of events, but not as cleanly done.  More lineation suggestions.

He bought her a second skin; it was of lace, and he loved it better.  

     By making that stanza a singleton, a single line, I think it seems to stand out as a pivot place, and sets up the rest of the poem fairly nicely.  Of course, we'll have to chase the thing down and see if that's true or not, won't we?


Her face was canvas.  He bought an artist to paint a new one:
a halo of frozen sherbet, molasses piped in a thin scroll above two pontefract cakes.

Because each side showed a blush of marshmallow,
two cut strips of red liquorice, and lobes studded with gilded cloves,
He said she was not herself.

     I think you might reconsider the last two words, "and drowned."  You've given us ample reason to expect an explosion, but no bodies of water.

She packed his charges tight to a fist, and flung it.
He squeezed her misery, collected a brackish gourd, and lobbed it.
They were blown apart and drowned.


     Ah MB, such a lovely draft.  It's almost there, and almost publishable.  Some places might take it now, but I'd try honing it a bit first before sending it on its way.  Sincerely yours, Bob Kaven


moonbeam
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3 posted 2008-09-12 03:44 AM


Jenn

I see what you mean about the Marshmallow thing.  I keep "almost" changing it!  And thanks for your kind words.

Bob

Terrific feedback.  This was written for a specific exercise:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/apr/14/poetry

hence the rather "listy" feel: metaphor after metaphor.  But I've been struggling a bit with a sense of clumsiness in my writing for a while now, and maybe some of your comments have given me a few pointers to help identify the problems.  I'm a little busy today, and your critique deserves a lot of thought.  I'll be back soon to say thank you properly.

M

[This message has been edited by moonbeam (09-12-2008 12:42 PM).]

moonbeam
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4 posted 2008-09-13 01:28 PM


Dear Moonbeam,

           Mixed feelings about this, MB.  Firstly, your competence shows in the way you kick things off, mid action, and in the way you try to keep things going; there's a good sense of drive and motion to the whole thing, a tilt to it and a push.

     I was immediately disoriented by your lineation, right from stanza one.  While I was charmed by the motion and the antiphonal structure, I simply felt that something had to be done to get "she carried the the weight of his kiss lightly[.]" onto another line.  It seems clear to me that you really want things this way, however, and I don't have a feeling for the why of it.  I'd go:  

A day later he still felt the whorl of her fingertip on his cheek;
she carried the weight of his kiss lightly.  

>>>Yes Bob, you nailed the obvious, and in doing so maybe crystallised a concern that's been growing on me over the last couple of years.  That would certainly be a much more comfortable structure, probably more pleasing too.  A while back I made a conscious decision, having read an inspirational essay by someone or other (I'm not good with names) on playing with linebreaks, to try and use line endings as "signposts" - signposts ranging in clarity from the, hopefully, subliminal to the overt.  Unfortunately somewhere along the way I think I've allowed that fascination to dominate to the point where conflicts arise; conflicts that apparently adversely effect the whole.  I need to do a bit of serious re-evaluation of priorities I think.

     Hearing the sunrise is nice.  I'm not so enamoured of the structure of line two, where you have "For her" at the beginning.  I think I want it after "breath," though I'm not absolutely sure.  I like the way you are playing against expectation that the parallelisms be more or less absolute.  I think that's canny.

>>>Just like perfect meter can become predictable and boring - so can perfect parallelism.   For that matter I'm suspicious of perfect anything at a material level.  However, I think you are so very right about "For her ..." and it serves me jolly well right.  Very good catch Bob.  I threw that line in right at the end of writing, stolen from a much older poem, but modified to "fit".  An act of expediency that sounds clumsy.  Thanks for the confirmation.

He took her to the woods to hear the sunrise.
For her a nightingale had held its breath all night.

     Once again, pour moi, the problem with lineation.  I feel more comfortable with either:

He broke a nail to thread his house onto her key ring.  
She offered him the sacrifice of her mother's heart.

>>>Same problem as above, and I really wanted "sacrifice" in that position too.  Humm.  I've been toying with modifying to:

"She offered him a sacrifice:
her mother's heart."

For even greater emphasis, but I guess I might need to rethink it.
or:

He broke a nail to thread his house  
onto her key ring.  She offered him
the sacrifice of her mother's heart.

     Certainly you'll have your own fine reasons for the way you've got it.

>>>Not so sure they are so fine!

     I really enjoy the next couplet; it's witty and brief.  The poem is being reasonably graceful as it takes note of the increasing weight of obligation in both directions and it seems even-handed as it does so.  This is so-o-o-o-o hard to do, I can't help but admire your skill here.

She gave him her childhood to treasure.
He gave her nearly all of his.

>>>Thanks.

Once again, my problem is with the lineation, which I find cramped and difficult.  The relationship may have had such qualities, but I believe that a distinction needs to be drawn between the relationship and the poem about the relationship, which shows all the signs of beings graceful, flowing, kind and open, even in its difficult ending.  This part, this cooking and money section, is particularly graceful and fine.  Please don't crowd it.

Every evening she unlocked the sunlight from butter, wheat and cheese;
spread it before him on a plain beech platter.
He ate, and allowed her to caress the sheen of salary on his skin.

>>>Here I am definitely with you.  Demoting "on his skin" was a completely impotent gesture - I can't understand why I did it now!  Your structure generally is much better.

     I run into more substantive issues here with understanding, especially calling a persian rug "a burst of Persia."  Calling the fire at this point "her" fire seems to be anticipating disaster a bit too eagerly.  Their cooperation in igniting the"burst of Persia" seems too obscure to visualize, and it needs to be made more solid, should you decide to leave it in.  I'd do it a bit differently, as by now you are probably ruefully telling yourself, no doubt I'm about to show you.  Sorry.

>>>I've clearly watched way too many movies where the hero and heroine end up entwined naked on the rug in front of a blazing log fire.   I least I hope I have!!  I don't think I'll say much more about that section!

He wanted to fly.  
She gave him gauntlet and jess, then an icon of brushed wind and steel.  

     I simply don't get the booze part of it, and I think it should come out.  It feels as though it comes from a different dimensions of reality than the other stuff, more of a direct translation of events, but not as cleanly done.  More lineation suggestions.

>>>Perhaps a bit of desperation to pack in another metaphor - slip into alcohol abuse.  It's maybe not an overly attractive passage, and perhaps an overwritten distraction on reflection.

He bought her a second skin; it was of lace, and he loved it better.  

     By making that stanza a singleton, a single line, I think it seems to stand out as a pivot place, and sets up the rest of the poem fairly nicely.  Of course, we'll have to chase the thing down and see if that's true or not, won't we?

>>>This was very well spotted indeed Bob.  "Pivot"/ "volta" were the precise words I had in my mind writing that line, and it does indeed work with more effect as a singleton.

Her face was canvas.  He bought an artist to paint a new one:
a halo of frozen sherbet, molasses piped in a thin scroll above two pontefract cakes.

Because each side showed a blush of marshmallow,
two cut strips of red liquorice, and lobes studded with gilded cloves,
He said she was not herself.

     I think you might reconsider the last two words, "and drowned."  You've given us ample reason to expect an explosion, but no bodies of water.

She packed his charges tight to a fist, and flung it.
He squeezed her misery, collected a brackish gourd, and lobbed it.
They were blown apart and drowned.

>>>For what it's worth the parallelism was meant to be preserved at the close with his charged words gathered and flung back, and her floods of tears collected and lobbed back.  Charges blow, tears drown.  Humm, perhaps it's all just a bit too twee!

>>>Your close reading is very much appreciated Bob.  Many thanks again.

M

Abbeon
Member
since 2006-11-30
Posts 228
Curiousity, and wonder
5 posted 2008-09-15 04:16 PM


I was drawen along in the poem but i must admit you lost me some where, and yet i am content to flot along the streams of words.

The hollow emptiness, the crazed thoughts left to survive

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