pastoral soul (the thicket ram)

electric shears loose-metaled,
tattling and stripped like hyena bones—tangled
in the gray shallows of wool that i
could choke myself through
like a hoarse voice after an ankle
broken in a muleless canyon,
the low nimbus fallen to barnfloor
& 4h season coming to a close, and
the lamb at his most trusting, unflustered
by my hand lingering at his named,
charted, sweetest muscles. a couple
weeks later, setting his legs apart
for a judge in stonewash and an old signed
baseball of a voice. i with my shirt
tucked in, twelve years old, rubbing
the tagged suffolk ear, soft and dark
as a porch-kiss. i with my too-big
unbroken boots he and i walking under
the hitch-greased unfiddled reel
of the auctioneer's hysteria—everyone dressed
in the hay-blush of denim—i, hoping
for at least three hundred dollars, maybe
from a bid from sherms, who owned two
franchise grocery stores and sat in the crowd
like a caesar for the games. he was very calm
beside me, and i could feel his pulse
dropping gently and sadly as gassed box bees,
and i was sorry i named him, my heart
old now and decaying barn-wise from
the rill of sweet, dowling tallgrass. sold,
sold, a low bid from a local bank, leading him
out back behind the arena where
dad caught up. i think i hung around his neck
and remembered walking up glory c road
letting the halter drag because
he was so willing to walk beside me,
california poppies out of the ditch-sides
tight and bright as wolf-whistles,
dustless paleontology of mailbox posts
and split fences. my dad told me
that I had known from the beginning
that this would happen, that the feeling
of feeding him mixed grain would be shrink-wrapped
and kept in the heartland freezer aisles
of sherms' stores. i, thinking that
trying not to cry was in the tradition
of all shepherds, all springs, all
haltered and responsible blood.

An ampersand. Kylan. I love you.
Very nicely compact and put together, it requires multiple readings. Overall, the ability is most pleasing. Now, assessing otherwise, twill be interesting. I'm going to approach this like another one of yours works. To be honest, you're at a point where critiques do only so much good. You're well aware of what you're doing and where you're going, you merely enjoy and desire (need perhaps as well), outside opinions of precisely what it is people see and how you should or should not tweak it. I'm happy to oblige!

And I get this big Steinbeck feeling from you. Sorry if you hate him or something. ; D

Kylan wrote:electric shears loose-metaled,
tattling and stripped like hyena bones—

It takes a particularly gutsy poet to do this. Immediate strong, visceral imagery. This is what I love, the feeling. Imagery? I see it as extra to be honest. The ability to speak is most important, and this does it. "Tattling", hmmm we'll see what that does for you. The implication can be many things. I won't make assumptions with you.

tangled
in the gray shallows of wool that i
could choke myself through
like a hoarse voice after an ankle
broken in a muleless canyon,

As you can see, I'm going to subdivide this by each speaking section, as this work would understandably be read as such if well...read aloud. Shears tangled in very descriptive wool, this speaker expresses a desire, or perhaps merely an interest in another nature they invest in it. And "hoarse" voice. Hah, you coy man. Very good, followed with "mule", as if lost, yet a play on words. So the interesting point is where will this go? The tattling shears gives an overall eerie impression so far, and perhaps that was your intention. Even if not, I find it permissible so far.

So, I'll continue to analyze, but ability is key here. Narration, the speaker, is as well. The "i" provides a curious choice of removed importance, as if castration. Ha, I'm not going to go Freud on this, I don't like psycho-analytic study. Reading far too much, when ability to speak needs to be more focused on.

the low nimbus fallen to barnfloor
& 4h season coming to a close, and
the lamb at his most trusting, unflustered
by my hand lingering at his named,
charted, sweetest muscles.

There we go! I knew you wouldn't leave a loose-string. You were holding out just long enough to show us the real intention. The tattling shears, an innocent lamb, a plethora of symbols and implications, but we have our answers and new questions nicely presented. What precisely is the guilt of this speaker then? Though, let me say I don't put as much stock into analysis as I use to. Especially when someone like yourself is writing.

a couple
weeks later, setting his legs apart
for a judge in stonewash and an old signed
baseball of a voice.

Now this won't do. Did you run into a wall? Before you write the fear and manipulation, then the method and object of the prior associations...so a time jump? A judge eh? The baseball voice...hm, you've done too much for me in too little Kylan. It's not bad, but it's like you tossed these lines out of a hat and decided on them because they landed heads up. Or written side up.

i with my shirt
tucked in, twelve years old, rubbing
the tagged suffolk ear, soft and dark
as a porch-kiss.

Better. This is much more intimate with the lamb. That intimacy is the visceral nature I spoke of earlier, it's your strength. The problem is the section before loses this momentum. Quite powerfully too. Find a way to keep it going.

i with my too-big
unbroken boots he and i walking under
the hitch-greased unfiddled reel
of the auctioneer's hysteria—everyone dressed
in the hay-blush of denim—i, hoping
for at least three hundred dollars, maybe
from a bid from sherms, who owned two
franchise grocery stores and sat in the crowd
like a caesar for the games.

See? You ought to know this is your best type of writing in poetry. Though, boots to he is not quite working how you want. It will be too abrupt for most and seem like a mistake or oversight. The rest fits well; but one thought, where is the anxiety? Where is the power of in your words from before? I feel you devoted all of it to say "caesar" and present this new conflict/interest for the speaker. Ok, I guess. You're aiming for a Shepherd connection though.

he was very calm
beside me, and i could feel his pulse
dropping gently and sadly as gassed box bees,
and i was sorry i named him, my heart
old now and decaying barn-wise from
the rill of sweet, dowling tallgrass. sold,
sold, a low bid from a local bank, leading him
out back behind the arena where
dad caught up.

"Very calm"...you can do better. At least let it read...less directly. It's simply not meshing with the overall impression. However "beside me" after that line is good, nice enjambment compared to most crappy examples. Superb imagery as well, enforcing earlier feeling theme and later one. Very smart. The rest, quite nice. You're back into the strength of this poem. The boy shepherd to to his sheep. I also admire your use of direction and movement in the later lines. We get a powerful feeling from the speaker.

i think i hung around his neck
and remembered walking up glory c road
letting the halter drag because
he was so willing to walk beside me,
california poppies out of the ditch-sides
tight and bright as wolf-whistles,
dustless paleontology of mailbox posts
and split fences.

Okay, wolf mention, almost feels like dust-bowl the way you depict it and the speaker narrates. "dustless paleontology"...Yes, it's like you're rising from Oklahoma, but merely suggesting the farm life, the passing of time slowly on them.

my dad told me
that I had known from the beginning
that this would happen, that the feeling
of feeding him mixed grain would be shrink-wrapped
and kept in the heartland freezer aisles
of sherms' stores. i, thinking that
trying not to cry was in the tradition
of all shepherds, all springs, all
haltered and responsible blood.

And we wrap it up.

Well Kylan, a lengthy ending rant. So I do not give in-text advice beyond mere comments on parts. I don't believe in telling other what to write unless they desire, as their voice is different from me, and they must write it themselves to grow. SO, we see the coming of age experience. Loss, the regret in each and every action, making oneself think of other things, regret, reassurance, and still yet doubt before the ending note....

You write from a time gone by. And that is not a bad thing. You have something to tell and show, and it is worth reading and figuring out. But is that all? I don't think so. I still believe you can strengthen certain sections and establish the relationship with lamb and boy better. The ending is rushed, but merely because it must establish more for the main relationship. The beginning is too brief, and jumps with the wrong timing THOUGH your intention is to present the coming fear...yet is the climax properly delivered?

Well Kylan, this is poetry I enjoy. Easy to relate, honest, but with work put into it that is almost loving in nature, and still able to inspire an array of emotions. I like to prattle.

Mm, you need to hang around these parts of town more often.

Very you - comfortable and soft, tightly woven and you draw the reader in immediately.
This particular piece had its peaks and falls, but altogether came out to be a pleasant read for the late afternoon.

Shall I prod at the remaining issue, that I don't think you'll fix? I shall. You're very capable of coaxing out small, subtle traces of emotions in the reader's gut through the intimacy of your poetry, your ability to describe the tiniest details in reactions or scenery. But it remains like looking at an old faded movie or scrapbook that you haven't seen since you closed it. We aren't there in the moment, we're reobserving an old familiar memory.

The nostalgia in your tone is like listening to an elderly relative talking about some memory, so very fondly but us ourselves, can't complete re-experience the emotions felt in the moment, and neither can the relative telling the story, because a distance has been placed between the moment and the current time.

Now whether this distance be time in the case of the relative, or just your own personal investment in the poem they come off as the same.

But it remains a nice experience to live through your poetry.

In the specifics of the poem itself:

a couple
weeks later, setting his legs apart
for a judge in stonewash and an old signed
baseball of a voice.

Meh. This is kind of cold, dismissive imagery in comparison to the kind of intimacy you find between the persona and the lamb.

i with my too-big
unbroken boots he and i walking under
the hitch-greased unfiddled reel
of the auctioneer's hysteria

Rolls off my tongue. But it doesn't bring to the table what it should, just a weaker set of lines in the context of the poem.

he was very calm
beside me, and i could feel his pulse
dropping gently and sadly as gassed box bees,

This isn't very special, it kind of lacking in representation of the moment. Though I do like the idea of "gassed box bees"

he was so willing to walk beside me,
california poppies out of the ditch-sides
tight and bright as wolf-whistles,
dustless paleontology of mailbox posts
and split fences.

Yes.

i, thinking that
trying not to cry was in the tradition
of all shepherds, all springs, all
haltered and responsible blood.

The ending lines themselves aren't particularly lingering. They do give the poem nice closure but it's nothing I'd think about later tonight and echo in my head.

Kamas