Young Writers Society

note: last thing to him, I'll move on to someone else.

Dedicated to Allen Ginsberg

Allen is a park

Allen is a tree.
His trunk carries memory,
rings and rings of experience making reams
for diaries, packed in a thick thicket
casing, carved with countless initials
around a pulp: raw, supple, and
warm.
Allen is a poem in a leaf.
His veins bleed chlorophyll fury green,
turn brown by autumn and he dies again
each spring; Howling coyotes are lost
searching for his grave.
Allen is a park in America.
Quiet, deserted, lonely except
for a few old men I remember as a child
who can't wait for death; I won't be
one of them they pray.
Allen is a tree.
He writes my future
on the folds of his bark skin and hears
my life in his creaking timber, like settling foundations for a coffin.
A trip to Allen in each page I read,
his soul never leaves.

Hello there, I'm here as requested!

I really liked this poem. The imagery was awesome, and the way you wrote it... Well, it's pretty good. I don't have any nitpicks for you unfortunately. I really feel cheep when I do a review and I've got nothing on the side of constructive criticism, but I seriously can't find anything to work on. It's that good.

I liked how you talked about a tree, and leaves, even giving them a name, which gives it a more poetic feel.

Good job!

-Other One

theotherone wrote :
Hello there, I'm here as requested!

I really liked this poem. The imagery was awesome, and the way you wrote it... Well, it's pretty good. I don't have any nitpicks for you unfortunately. I really feel cheep when I do a review and I've got nothing on the side of constructive criticism, but I seriously can't find anything to work on. It's that good.

I liked how you talked about a tree, and leaves, even giving them a name, which gives it a more poetic feel.

Good job!

-Other One

Hello there,

I kind of liked this poem. I used to write poems, but to be honest this is very nice. I know this is not a good review because I'm bad in criticism. I notice the poem is link to the the nature which is good.

Good luck,

Alicia.

Oh, yes.

Timing wise, this assures me that you can do it. Forget the obviousness of the metaphor -- look at the poem, visually. See how that makes you read it, paces your reading of it, aurally. It's got an element of what I rather like: control. Rather than the ridiculously careering run-ons I'm so used to seeing from you, we get utter calmness, which gives us time to stop and laugh at the transitions, like 'Allen is a park / Allen is a tree.' There's humour in this, of course, but I also feel an undertone of darkness; not sadness, per se -- nostalgia, perhaps?

Good timing. Note pattern could be better, to use the metaphor of music for writing.

Allen is a tree.
His trunk carries memory

That seemed too obvious a transition -- we anticipate it. Needs more of an element of surprise -- jumping from park to tree to trunk gets a bit much, on the chorus side.

His trunk carries memory,
rings and rings of experience making reams
for diaries, packed in a thick thicket
casing, carved with countless initials
around a pulp: raw, supple,
and warm.
Allen is a poem in a leaf.
His veins bleed chlorophyll fury green,
turn brown by autumn and he dies again
each spring

Transitions are better. Highlighting 'warm' like that -- I sort of like it, no idea why. Perhaps I like the surprise of 'raw' to 'warm' -- the words sound similar, but mean something rather different, or, at least, have different connotations. And the 'Allen is a poem in a leaf' was great; made me laugh, more so because it's said with a completely straight-faced narrator, who then, calmly recounts, 'his veins bleed cholophyll fury green'.

I thought the 'howling coyotes' seemed unecessary, considering how good a job you'd already done in evoking a sense of madness in 'his veins bleed chlorophyll fury ...' Another aspect about timing you need to realise: not only does the punchline need to be said at the right time, but you also need to know where in the metaphor you need to enter, and when to leave. If one line says it well enough, and the other adds nothing, cut the other. If you don't grab me until the middle of the poem, the beginning could be dropped -- begin it in media res instead, right where the energy is. Don't waste words (time) on extraneous things, since you've only got so much to get the point across before the reader loses interest.

In short? Pay attention to the reader.

Allen is a park in America.
Quiet, deserted, lonely except
for a few old men I remember as a child
who can't wait for death; I won't be
one of them they pray

Remove 'lonely' since 'quiet' and 'deserted' more or less implies it and adding 'lonely' just diffuses whatever depth you had, heart-wise. What about italicising I won't be one of them? Would add a personal touch to it; would break it out of rhythm to wake the reader up a little more. You can afford to mess it up a little here, because it's already so clear cut.

Allen is a tree.
He writes my future
on the folds of his bark skin and hears
my life in his creaking timber, like settling foundations for a coffin.
A trip to Allen in each page I read,
his soul never leaves.

Give this more punch, or remove it entirely. 'Allen is a tree' -- we're tired of the chorus by now. We want more surprise. The next three lines seem like ritardando that fades to pianissimo on 'coffin', which, if it were the end, would be absolutely devoid of any energy at all -- I want to feel something, at the very least, at the end. What feeling do you want me to leave with, anyway? And that 'A trip to Allen in each page...' etc two lines -- by that time, I'm saying, okay, you've ended the poem already, you've sung the song; why are you trying to stuff more words in before the sustain of the last note (pedaled, soft, slow) dissipates?

---

It's interesting. This poem is almost like an antithesis -- stylistically -- of Poetry in Still Life. There, you had great themes/metaphors messed up, and timing completely neglected, but transitions weren't half bad, either. Here, you've got a metaphor clear as day -- almost too clear, in some parts, which leads it to being boringly predictably -- and timing dead-on.

Combine the the two, yes?

OH AND: Allen Ginsberg is fantastic. Somebody had to say it.

MeanMrMustard wrote:note: last thing to him, I'll move on to someone else.

Dedicated to Allen Ginsberg

Allen is a park

Allen is a tree.
His trunk carries memory,
rings and rings of experience making reams
for diaries, packed in a thick thicket
casing, carved with countless initials
around a pulp: raw, supple, and
warm.
Allen is a poem in a leaf.
His veins bleed chlorophyll fury green, Consider rewording. Is the green, chlorophyll, or fury being described?
turn brown by autumn and he dies again
each spring; Howling coyotes are lost
searching for his grave.
Allen is a park in America.
Quiet, deserted, lonely except I would re-punctuate this stanza to clarify.
for a few old men I remember as a child
who can't wait for death; I won't be
one of them they pray.
Allen is a tree.
He writes my future
on the folds of his bark skin and hears
my life in his creaking timber, like settling foundations for a coffin.
A trip to Allen in each page I read,
his soul never leaves.

This poem is absolutely beautiful! It starts and ends strongly but suffers in the middle.

The first "stanza" (up to the leaf part) is really well done and perfected.

Then comes a confusing wording that changes the tone and distracts me almost too much from the lovely lines that follow it. However, the "Howling coyotes" are a bit random and it simply doesn't make sense to me why howling coyotes would be looking for the resting place of a leaf, or what it actually means to you.

The section about being an American park is equally confusing. Is the park quiet and deserted, (which isn't implied due to the period) or are YOU quiet and deserted (since you are at the end of the sentence). What do the prayers of old men, which are exceptions to your description of a park, have to do with Allen?

The middle section did, however, give a general impression that I could feel no matter what.

Then you come back with "Allen is a tree," and conclude the poem beautifully.

"on the folds of his bark skin and hears
my life in his creaking timber, like settling foundations for a coffin."

The ending pun made me crack a smile. And I'm assuming Allen would be fond of it too.