Tarot Decks of Memories (Revisited)

So.. I have posted this before. Now, I want to revisit it. I want to cut it down. It is long, it is ambiguous, it was an outpouring of visuals and emotions for me. I don't know if you can even follow it. But I want it to be more concise. And, unfortunately, I am no longer objective enough to do that properly. Thoughts, criticisms?

I originally started writing it for this contest: http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/~Pi ... ng~/10264/
but it turned out.. this.


THANKS!



A room full of rainbow symphonies
And tarots decks of colors
Mended mirrors reflecting impossibilities
I don’t understand it all
The layers of realities and lives
Overlapping one another
And spreading from each other all the time

A whirlwind of worlds
Passing through my trains of thought
Getting off on each stop
And wondering where the hell I am
Greeted there not by grateful friends,
But by new strangers
Filled with the old, the new, and the colorful
Smelling of sunberries and dark green skies
Willow blossoms in their hair
Carrying the scent of snowdrops
Dancing like trees in the twilight
No two movements the same, sharp licks of fire
Wildflower bouquets in their hands
With ribbon tied clothes swaying
Like a separate entity altogether
But they’re torn and distraught
Ragged and patched
With sunlight and prism spectrums

And their carriers, well they’re
Speaking in subdued subtlety
Voices like leaves in a river, murmuring tales in hushed tones,
Wind in a waterfall, whistling like a careless traveler,
Bees humming in baritones, dancing onto flowers with sweet delicacy,

They’re fairytales come alive
With modest theatricality
But ones I’ve never heard
From grandparents with their grave voices
Never seen
With eyes curious and wide
But have always known they’re there
Felt them as they’ve leapt in and out of my heart,
Of childhood recollections
And forgotten nostalgias
Creatures of fantasy
Living under bridges
And in barren holes
In little wooden houses built by little curious children
Hoping to catch a glimpse of the magic

Almost like old fashioned angels
Archaic halos held up with rusted wires
With eagle feathers and tobacco pipe wafts
So pure on the inside
While they rot on the out
Impossible to see their real faces
Not completely
Cloaked in too many dove feather masks
Too many daffodil emotions
Clouding their musical lips
Whimsicality in every soft word

And their illusory eyes
Oh, their chimerical eyes
With their shadows hidden behind pupils
Opportunistic ways in irises
And their purity in those perfectly bright whites.
Reflections of an alien people
Of a wondrous life
Of reminiscence and memories
So many many memories
Forgotten and held on to
With a vice like mind

Fantasies
Daydreams
And everyday life
Because the small things
Were always the most important
Always

Strands of thought reflected in smells
In that Spring perfume
Flying by like startled finches.
The lost come back finally
To a grateful mind
Aided by the movement of memory
The dances of lucidity
Motions from the past
Ribbons of color reminders
Of nostalgia and nostalgia’s offspring.

Yes, I am grateful
To those old strangers and new friends
But saddened too,
For those bright remindings
Brought so many dark findings

I look up now, from my nostalgic and rueful contemplations
Only to find sweet angels’ costumes cast aside
In the midst of midnight memories
To reveal gargoyle grin masks
Eagle wings now wicked crows’ claws
Poisoned with pieces of the past

Their swayings cast shadows now
Previous brightness now a glimmer in their eyes
Is that hatred?
Fear?
Fury?
Malice.
Their simplicity, purity
Is gone now, in a wave of reality
No longer bright fields in a rusty train station
But the dark woods nearby
A great fire crazing behind them

Glint of firelight
Of malevolence
In those feverish eyes
Hollowed and deepened
Once balanced, now all black
Glimmering, shimmering,
So inhuman

Gone is the warmth exuding from lithe forms
Now it’s the cold depths of well water
Covered in water striders and darkness
Talons have grown from delicate fingers
Teeth sharpened with ferocious gnashing
Beasts have replaced my new found friends
Happiness poisoned by
My newly recovered memories of old

I have such regret for our meeting
For my discovery of what’s past and gone
Please
Wipe my mind clean, kind strangers
Revert to your old ways of loving savagery
Rather than this hateful taint I have created.
Forget what you have seen
The hurt in my head and face from budded thoughts
I take them back, every single one,
Let me forget everything
All that I have ever seen with these aching eyes
And let yours crinkle with laughter once again

Strike me with the fist of blissful amnesia
And wash away these images, brutalities
Let me wake from nightmares with a startled jolt
Vagueness numbing bitter pains of what’s past.

Hello.

My first point is agreeing with you on the length. Length can be alright, so long as the reader doesn't get lost in the actual poem. About a third of the way through this, I wondered what the point of the poem was. Come the final third you began clearing it up, as the angels became demons, but I was so confused as to what the point of the poem was it wasn't enough to have me walk away with an understanding of what was going on.

I also found your imagery between your title and the actual poem to be disjointed. I find the title of a poem should heavily reflect what the poem's theme is about. Right now, you're using a line of the poem early on as the title, and I don't find it really works as a good representation of what your poem contains. Either re-title the work or rewrite the poem so this fits together better.

When it comes to how this poem needs to be dealt with, I say make a list of the main story of this poem/what you want to accomplish. Then, rewrite it. Do the renovation equivalent of a complete gut. Keep certain things, such as the progression from heaven to hell, and maybe keep some of the language, but rewriting to cut down on the sheer bulk is my principle piece of advice.

Hope this helps. PM me if you have any questions/comments.

~Rosey

Hello there. Rosey was quite thorough with the length and imagery, so I shall be focusing on one aspect of poetry I feel is particularly essential: punctuation.

Now, normally a lack of punctuation irritates the heck out of me. Fortunately for you, the lack of punctuation did not irritate me as much as I thought it would just looking at the poem before I read it. The lack really gives this poem a flowing feel that I don't think could be accomplished with punctuation, and it does enhance the stream of consciousness theme of the poem.

Unfortunately, there is such a thing as flowing too well, and that's what your poem does. Because there is such minimal punctuation, individual ideas have no clear beginning or end, and so they run together into one massive stream of thought, which makes comprehending the individual stanzas (much less the entire poem) very difficult. Even stream of consciousness has to be somewhat comprehensible, otherwise it is just unpleasant to read.

Now, since adding punctuation (particularly periods) would probably disrupt the flow, I think that getting a bit more creative with the stanza and line breaks, and even incorporating different typefaces and effects, would make this poem a bit more accessible. In particular, I think the use of different typefaces for different ideas would add to the stream of consciousness feel.