The Epigram

My first work posted here, and quite possibly one of my favorites.


Meticulously, I scribbled down the words
Of an epigram that had been
Sitting in the back of my mind.
It sat like a grandmother in her rocker
As patient as dew drops
And as subtle as well.

Back in my epicurean days
It would have been more a limerick.
The punch line, a skirt, or the lack of one.
While my hands ran through my hair,
The locks would be full and bright.
But narrow the view from my pedestal from then.
It was made of college professors
And the vivacious ignorance of youth.

If I push the hands forward
(Like I ever had to)
My poems are of work.
They reflect on the audacity of blue-collar
They reflect on how the current pulls you
And how between rapids
You want to remove the mantle clock
Dust it, have it fixed.
Ironically, there is no time.

But we were at the epigram.
Now my locks have dulled
And I feel like a sundried tomato
On the outside
Wrinkled, and not quite looking the same.
Unlike the day skilled hands
Had picked me from the vine;
Wearied only on the outside.
On the inside?
Bursting with flavor.
Or maybe I was bourbon.
Having to be burned in and around
And aged
To achieve the rich and sagacious
Flavor.

I digress. In doing so
I feel like I am making an igloo
With my brother again.
Then, our imaginations were bursting too
But from ripeness.
We build the igloo, starting with the
Floor.
Before we knew it
Our shovels would become hammers
And we were preparing for war
With pure, white snowballs for ammunition.

My epigram rocks back and forth
Keeping in time with the cricket song.
And as I scribble, I find closure.
I feel I have remembered all-
All that was worth it.
I have forgiven the clock
For its irregular ticking
For stopping sometimes
And, yes, for even being too fast.
Subdued by the bubbly words
I can lay down my feather
Take up my nightgown
And submerge myself, up to the eyes
In the counterpoint of life
As impartial eyes
And as an epigram writer.

This was fantastic. Absolutely amazing. It was deep, but coherent. There was nothing ordinary, nothing cliche or trite about this piece. It was stunning. The only thing I have to mention, and I dearly wish I had more helpful advice for you, is that there were a couple spots missing punctuation. One quick proofread and I'm sure you'll spot them.

I was concerned as I went through this that you would end up rambling, using image after image, instance after instance, and not connecting them. But you brought everything together. I wondered if your subject would shine through, considering the length and such, but it did. It happened subtly, but by the end it was completely clear; the timing was perfect.

Even though it was on the longer side, it held my attention with no trouble. I remained hooked; my concentration didn't falter once.

I want you to take this review as a big compliment, even though it lacks any constructive criticism. There has not been one single poem that I have ever reviewed on YWS where I didn't find one thing that could be better, where I couldn't find one suggestion to make.

Congratulations; this is the closest to speechless I have ever come after reading poetry here. I'm definitely going to keep a lookout for more of your work. =)

And, welcome to YWS.

-Adna

I love and adore this. Feel free to PM me/post in my "Will Review For Food" thread if you want any other poetry reviewed, as I'd love to read more of you.

Your use of language and imagery is fantastic. I especially love;
"Back in my epicurean days

It would have been more a limerick.

The punch line, a skirt, or the lack of one"

and

"Unlike the day skilled hands

Had picked me from the vine;

Wearied only on the outside.

On the inside?

Bursting with flavor."

If I were to nit-pick, I'd suggest cutting "looking" from before "the same", as you've already said "wrinkled", so a change in appearance has obviously taken place. I'd also add a comma after "dew drops".

Other than that, I wouldn't change anything. Thanks for a great read.

Jas

Good one this, Penelope.

I'll try to give some constructive bird-food, but I know how it can be difficult to chop at a favourite.

From the very beginning, what struck me was the simplicity of the language you used (not talking about diction or tropes, but just the flow of the language and thought). You would do well to develop this quality in later poems. I think I'm making more sense of it...it's a bit prosaic, y'know. Especially your sentence-starts. Less of the adjectives and adverbs at most points.

The role of 'The Epigram' in all of this was also interesting. To think of this whole poem as an epigram gives it a well packaged touch. It seems smaller than it is. Verse 2 was perhaps my most un-favourite verse. I don't loathe it, I don't hate it, it doesn't make me uncomfortable, but I certainly wasn't blown away by the way you handled the subject of your past in that particular verse. Two things in particular were 'epicurean' and 'It was made of college...of youth', the first because it didn't match well with why you would use a limerick (I get the idea but it doesn't fit) and the second because 'college professors' stifled what you describe as a view which needs narrowing.

The third verse makes up for any shortcomings big-time. The first three lines of the verse are memorable for their unusual idea (though frankly, "My poems are of work" is simple yet ambiguous).

The sun-dried tomato and bourbon sequence was good and I would have suggested that it could have lost some extra weight except that it does well to digress. Now, digressions are an old trick in the book ('Birches' by Frost comes to mind first) so you would do well to see that you use it with some thought (which you did with the real-smart igloo insert!)

The approach to the end and the finish were well crafted (the ticking clock and to-and-fro cricket especially). All in all it was one of those poems which was a stone's throw from priceless. I realise I might have been a little harsh but you could do with a look through y'know!

Thanks a lot for the read,
The Plant.