Room

A distant
drip
drip
drip
of a liquid
from up high
to down
low,
crashing with
spectacular force
on to the
concrete floor.

A flicker of
light
on and off,
much like the
flutter of
moth's wings
twitching
in agony,
regretting his
passion for
luminance.

A coldness
lingers in the room,
without doors
or windows,
like the
late-autumn chill
blown on her
fair, naked
skin.

The boy
kneeled before
the cacophony
of drips
and flickers,
shivering in the
cold.

His kneecaps
rubbed on the
itchy concrete floor,
and like red
and like blue
his knees bled
and his eyes cried
liquids
to add to the
flooding of the room.

The boy with blonde
scruffy hair
rocked his head
in a trance,
and muttered
a repeated
question:

Why... why... why...

His childlike face
had developed a hint of
blue and violet
from the
oppressive captivity,
subjected onto him
by reasons
and causes
unknown.

His head simply
rocks
back
and
forth,
his hair swaying
to the beat.

The question
again goes unanswered.

Then a
pause.

Tension.

Uneasiness.

The child turns his head
to the light,
stretching the
stiff muscles
attaching his thin
neck
to his torso.

He forcefully
opens his
tear-drenched eyes,
two complete circles
like the full moon,
revealing a pair of
sapphires.

He affixed them
to the flicker.

He began to count them
1, 2,
3,
4, 5, 6,
7...
He inhaled and continued,
8, 9,
He clenched his eyes
as if he longed for something...
"ten" he said out loud.

Drip,
drip, drip...

He looked back to his
wall
and once again rubbed his
knees on the itchy
concrete
with a nervous
incessancy.

His head
rocked
back
and forth.

Why... why... why...

He felt then a
wet coldness
on the tips of his
toes.

He looked down and
saw a passionate swirl
of blood and water
mixing into
an artful
puddle
where he
kneeled.

The boy paused again
and screeched with
his head tilted back
and his mouth agape
at the horror
of this new sensation.

Terror possessed him,
he imagined the water
filling his lungs.

Drip,
drip,
drip...

"STOP! PLEASE STOP!! NO MORE!!"
he yelled
as he shook his head violently,
his golden hair
waving in the cold
air.

He dug his knees
into the ground
so that the pain
would guide his
mind back to
reality.

For he knew pain
and was accustomed
to its company,
but this foreign
idea of his
inevitable
drowning
reacted vehemently
within in his
mind.

He wept all the more
demanding time, "stop,"
demanding the drops, "stop,"
demanding all to stop.

He longed violently
for his only possession:
life.

He wanted to live.

No, life was now his necessity!

He frantically devoured the cold air
as though he'd never
breathe again.

His eyes dilated-
a biological reaction
to the surplus of
oxygen
exciting his
perceptions.

All was a blur:
the drops, the flicker, the silence, the cold,
the puddle and his blood.

The questions didn't matter any more,
the flickers would never answer him!

He wished intensely
for existence
so he could continue to
hear the drips,
feel the cold,
see
the flickers...

Another
pause.

His pain-filled
gasps came to a halt,
as he readjusted
his breathing
to the drops.

The child turns his head
to the light,
once more.

Hope.

Longing.

Hesitation.

He counted solemnly
1,
2, 3, 4,
5,
6, 7...
He inhaled the cold air,
8...
9...
He clenched his eyes
and feared to open them.

Drip,
drip,
drip...

He still felt the flicker
piercing through his
eyelids.

The flicker that
defied the faithful
beating of the
drip...

The flicker that
expelled darkness
so the boy could
see...

The flicker that
refused his wholehearted
prayers and
hopes!

He clenched fists
and his eyes even
tighter.

He stretched out
his weary body
on the cold
concrete.

His soft
face melted
into the crude
concrete floor.

He beat his fists
into the puddle
rapidly.

Explosions of blood-water
glimmered across the
room
shining under the
flicker.

Like rubies they
shone,
but he
could not
witness
the fine
beauty his
terror and pain
had begotten.

He questioned
once more,
rubbing his face into
the puddle,
the concrete:

Why... why... why...

The room answered:

Drip... drip... drip...

A room with no
doors or windows,
no beginning
just ends.

No answers
just questions.

I'm going to be honest, there's quite a bit wrong with this poem. The poem overall feels random and poorly planned/edited, starting with "the boy" who gets introduced out of nowhere. The enjambment is cheap and meaninglessly all over the place, emphasizing the randomness. You overuse exclamation marks and ellipses (they are not effective). Your repetition (as ironic as this sounds) is redundant. Some words you use screw up the tone. At the end of the poem I feel like I don't know anything more than I knew at the start. I think what you've written would work better as prose, frankly. So overall I'd say go back to the drawing boards on this one, because this is a good foundation, but you can improve it. Try reading it aloud and cutting what you think feels kills the suspense that you seem to be going for. Flesh out "the boy" and maybe develop his motives and personality, then write this into a short story.

A flicker of
light
on and off,
much like the
flutter of
moth's wings
twitching
in agony,

I liked that part, because it was a strong image and seemed to reflect the boy, and his perception. The apostrophe in "moth's" needs to be moved after the "s" since it is plural. If it is singular, then an "a" needs to precede "moth's" unless "moth" is a proper noun, in which case capitalize it.

Oh dear, what fine criticism! My heart is simply broken to pieces! You've undone me! Now, what am I to do for my poor writing? Shall I run to its defense and try to salvage the atrocity? Shall I humbly accept my flaws and play dead? But.. my poor, poor writing! Forgive me Mr. Inkwell, I am quite the brute -- prideful, arrogant, and impudent ('tis my fatal flaw)!

No, no, Mr. Inkwell I surely jest (but I am quite the arrogant brute), but what writer doesn't love his/her work? Moreover, what writer doesn't long and strive to love his/her work? Here I would ask of your patience; hear me out, if you will. I love this poem because I wrote it (I'm sure you would sympathize). Permit me this chance to come to the defense of my work, for love compels me so! Here I go:







Before I address your comments, I would like to explain my work first.

This piece of poem came from an idea I've had similar to that of Jostein Gaarder's (author of Sophie's World and The Solitaire Mystery):

Life is both sad and solemn. We are led into a wonderful world, we meet one another here, greet each other---and wander together for a brief moment. Then we lose each other and disappear as suddenly and unreasonably as we arrived.

To be more exact, it was a poem inspired from the book of Ecclesiastes (a book in the Bible written by King Solomon concerning wisdom). More explicitly, the theme of mortality and truth expressed in the book.

The boy represents the individual (you and I). The room is the existence we are thrown into or the world we reside in. The droplets are time. The flickering lightbulb is our vague hope in something -- seemingly unrelated to our questions and longings; yet, shedding great light into this mysterious life of ours -- shedding light in the room (for hope often compels one to see life in a new perspective).

You had said the poem was random and poorly planned (concerning the editing, this was my 7th draft ^^!) Well, that's precisely it! The boy needs no introduction! We too are thrown into existence without an introduction; we are brought into 'being,' into life from a great unknown! We come to realize 'I exist' in the most mundane, yet, exciting way. Much like the Cogito Ergo Sum! I wanted it to be strange, unplanned, abrupt, abstract, much like how we have been alive before and only later do we come to understand we exist. The boy has been there in the room, but only when the poem starts does the reader realize he is there.

Why was he a child? Well, I've a particular faith in the curiosity of children (naturally, I'm fond of Saint-Exupery). I had thought a child's inquisitiveness was perfect for the story.

Why the drops? The room is supposed to have no openings, no form of escape. Naturally as the drops settle in, the room will be flooded little by little. Like a clock ticking, the water drops from up high as if it is the heavens cursing mankind to certain death!

Why the questioning of the boy? The question "why" is supposed to represent the philosophical angst of the individual when he/she realizes he/she exists -- when the boy realizes he is in the room. Naturally, we ask "why" once we realize that 'I' exist. "If I exist, then for what reason do I exist?" or "Why do I exist?" or " How did I come to exist?" and etc. The "why" is the curse of existence or (if you would accept existence elicits freedom)

We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact

and

Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough

Both quotes are from a philosopher I am fond of: Jean-Paul Sartre.

The boy is kneeling in subjection to the agony of 'why'. In the poem I wanted to bring to life the "agony of the mind" with the boy scraping his knees to the point of bleeding.

Why the lightbulb? Well, it's rather cliche isn't it (but a good majority of cliches have once not been a cliche and had contained some genuine meaning behind it)? The light is to represent the boy's object of hope. Call it God, call it Truth, call it whatever you wish to, for the boy, it is his only hope. We can consider the lightbulb to be the amalgamation of all the hopes an individual may have (to singularize a plural subject). However, it flickers and doesn't shine forth consistently. I had chosen that because our longing and hopes are so often based upon something so vague and fleeting. What is God? What is Truth? What is the answer to life? Yet, we hope so dearly that there are answers like God, like Truth to the question our existence necessitates. We hope there are such things, or we become a question without an answer! So, we long after it and pray to it for an answer.

The counting is that prayer the child mutters forth to the light, longing for some answer.

The poem reaches the climax when the boy feels and reacts to the water touching him. This scene is supposed to represent Man's realization of his own mortality. When the truth of death strikes an individual in such a vivid manner, the individual would naturally be seized by terror! It is our instinct to desire life over death! Existence over uncertainty! The boy know not what to do and is sent into a frenzy because his terror has overwhelmed him to the point of giving up his asking 'why'.

He turns again to the light for an answer, this time seeking an escape from death. Once again he is left unanswered or at least confused. He believes the light has failed him and gives up on hope. He no longer kneels but is prostrated onto the cold floor. He has been defeated by the room. He would ask 'why' again, for what else can he do but seek for an answer to the tragedy he was dealt? As we would ask our questions seeking reason in our mysterious existence the time continues to tick on -- a countdown to the end, thus the "drip, drip, drip."

You had written

I feel like I don't know anything more than I knew at the start

I'm glad you've felt that. I also felt that way after writing the poem. We come from an unknown and we depart to an unknown. The beginning of the poem is as abstract and senseless as the end -- like our existence.

Now concerning the part about the cheap and meaninglessly sporadic enjambment, I cannot say much on. The same goes for the ineffective exclamations and ellipses. A philosopher or some nut-job had once said "you can't argue taste." I do admit I am not too well-spoken; moreover, I am an utter failure at style and rhetoric (I happen to be an economics/science major) so forgive me on my shortcomings. I prefer ellipses and I like to keep the stanzas short since I happen to think in very few words and imagine only small thoughts later striving to link them together as I had done in this poem.

The repetition being redundant, well... repetitions in nature are redundant I suppose, but in this writing the repetition invoked was only for the dripping, 'why', and counting. I needed to invoke the repetition for the dripping to convey the monotony and steady march of time. The 'why' was repeated to convey the constant psychological pressure the reality of existence (the room) places on the individual. And the counting the first time and the second time were meant to be vastly different (although the motive was only vaguely distinguished).

Concerning my failure to achieve suspense: my goal wasn't to create suspense; rather, it was to create a sincere confusion and bewilderment. I tried to emphasize that in the last two stanzas:

no beginning
just ends.

No answers
just questions.

Concerning how some words messed up the tone... what was the correct tone you had been looking for? I too was rather struck dumb upon thinking what the tone ought to be. Which words messed up the appropriate tone? Perhaps you were dissatisfied with the water-blood sparkling midair. Quite the antithesis for the situation, isn't it? I feel there is still beauty to be found in the dismal tragedy of existence and so I had wanted to point that out. Moreover, to dwell so deeply upon the tragedy means one might risk the chance to be blind to such insignificant beauty in his/her life! Thus, the ruby-like suspension went unnoticed by the boy. There are great contrasts in this world; even in the greatest despair, there are genuine beauties to perceive.

Now the part about the moth... I had (no joke) spent a whole 30minutes playing around with that! It was surprising to see how you picked it out so expertly (kudos to you!!). I still don't know what would be a proper replacement for the phrase, I have yet to come across one that satisfies me.

The End.







My, my, that was quite a mouthful to type, or... is it a handful? Nevertheless, forgive me of my belligerence; I was born stubborn by nature, pardon my genetics (it really isn't my fault!). I am glad you had expressed honestly your many concerns for my work; it has inspired me to write honestly back in reply! Please take no offense to my brutish nature, I do hope you can pardon me this once (and twice if this were to happen again!). I appreciate your time and energy in reading a complete stranger's work. It really does great good to my sick soul. Take care Mr. Inkwell! Please do review my other works, and I, too, shall return the favor and enjoy your beloved works (feel free to deny the offer if you find me too repulsive, if not, please do recommend me a writing of yours to enjoy!!!).

Sincerely,
J

Wow. One simple word that could swing drastically both ways. Wow in the sense that this was-no joke or offense intended- a huge run on, winded rant about drips. Wow also because it started out engaging and vivid that it almost put me to sleep-though I did want to see the ending which I'd admit was a bit disappointing. There was no aha moment where something was brought to the table to make it all make sense. As a reader it was very long winded. So was the explanation of the piece. Perhaps we don't think on the same wavelength- because I didn't see an end result to this. I seemed like a bad nightmare that was more boring than scary.
I hope this made some sense. I really think as a writer you do have great skill and potential-but this piece isn't working for me. Don't toss it because a few of us don't see eye to eye- just keep at it!

Wow, I enjoyed reading the comments people made about this writing. I didn't bother reading it because it was really long and I happen to be very drowsy right now. I might read it tomorrow, though.

Although, I agree with the person who mentioned that it wasn't a good idea to defend your work in this forum. I scanned over a few parts of your rambling and felt that you came off a bit too egotistical and your effort to explain everyting was in vain because I don't think it's going to change anyone's view of the "supposed" chaotic poem (again I haven't read it yet. Just going by what they wrote)

I get negative reviews myself and the only time I explain the meaning them is when I'm being asked. Although, I explain my writings to the person in a private message.

Ahh... it seemed I've erred in just so many ways. I ask of all of you to forgive me of my brutish impudence that have inspired many sighs and disappointments. Good lessons always taste rather bitter I suppose (and I must say I had almost passed out from the taste!). Thank you all for enduring my great atrocity (I am certain I will author many more to come!). Please overlook my folly as a newbie's mishap and permit me another chance to save face! Thank you for your kindness and, moreover, your sympathy if you would permit me another chance to woo!

Sincerely,
J

The imagery of the room is powerful and extremely moving however I, rather unfortunately, have to agree with the other critics by noting its lack of connection with the reader.
While I was reading the poem I was unable to understand some of the elements to help me fully appreciate your work. I suggest that perhaps you explain some of the features more such as the meaning of the repetative counting.
Overall, brilliant descriptive piece but lacking in plot.
Tomboy044 x

This is a pretty awesome poem.
I like the the repetition of 'drip, drip, drip' and the short, choppy words that you've used, but as you use these words quite a lot, I suppose that, in a way, it does slow the poem down a little.
I think that you could shorten this poem down a bit. The idea is simple and you've expanded it into something better, but the idea just repeats itself a little too much and it starts to get a bit boring, actually. :\

Like rubies they
shone,
but he
could not
witness
the fine
beauty his
terror and pain
had begotten.

This whole poem is actually very, very good, and so is this stanza. But this part here, I don't think that 'rubies' works so well.
I think an extended simile would work better.

Rhythm.
I like the structure of this poem, but I think that you could neaten it out a little bit. There are a lot of short, choppy lines and then a few longer ones but I think that, with your writing, it'd look better with more of a constant flow of longer sentences.

I understood this poem but there seemed to be something slightly lacking for me...
The emotion, most likely. But then again this isn't exactly an emotional poem.
So you did good

Don't take my review to heart, because you do have a good way with words and I like your style

at first, I thought the boy was mourning, over someone, but after your explanation, as i do find it very intelligent, and confusing in the same, I really liked it, it is to show the aspect of human nature, the simplicity and complexity all in one, i absolutely love it, it makes you think, your poem, shows what people are scared to see, as for the poem, i liked it, it has great style, a knowledgiful (dont know if thats a word but anyways…..) message, and its a mind twist, i totally loved it, the explanation of it, could've of been brought in a little better, to show the philosophical message a bit better, it would give your poem, a better understanding, but as a mutual writer, i hate constructive critism, especially on how the lines are seperated, i believe, if you dont like it, or if it confuses you, no one is holding a gun to your head forcing you to read it, so get over it, ranting a little. anyway i love your poem ;D, when you get a chance, check out my poems. ;D

@Ryan: I'd liken it to both Camus and Sartre, neither of which are poets.

The rest I'll say in a PM, the appropriate mode of communication when replying to a review.

Okay, so I'm not going to say this was bad just because I'm bugged with you being bugged with critisism... I will though, say what I have to say and you can take it as advice or just ignore it.

I'll begin with saying, this was a very interesting story and clearly holds many messages and stuff but I think it's unecessary to keep it this long. This is because I'm sure you could deliver the same thing without the reader having to spend half an eternity reading something that doesn't develop often enough to keep you hooked. I did force myself through the entire piece and I won't say that I regretted it but I was a bit dissapointed with the ending as I was hoping for the boy to find his way in the end. Also, you could work on your punctuation!

Well enough of what could be improved - now to what I liked about it!

- I loved your descriptions and I could really picture this poor boy and I must say he really got to me and my pity for him felt real so... your imagery and talent for making things become alive there's nothing wrong with.

Hope I could be of help!

Good Luck & Keep Writing

// Demoness

Definitely an interesting poem. I agree that it felt drawn-out, and you can't help getting bored reading through it. It's very repetitious and any excitement and pity soon die out as it continues on and on and on. I, also, was hoping and expecting the ending to be happy - the boy finding his way out of this terrible pit or cave.

While I was reading through this, I was quite bewildered at what it was supposed to mean. I thought at first the boy was in some heinous torture chamber, but really, it was rather a dud as far as making much sense. It doesn't connect to your theme at all about it being about life or whatever it was you were trying to say in your extremely confusing explanation!

I think the descriptions and SOME of the short, abruptness was good, and I imagined in my mind's eye the cave quite well, so as far as that goes, good job. I think you should decide on something clearer, with more of an actual BASE. Something that makes sense and isn't all vague and abstract. You could also condense this. Say what you need to say in way less words. Anyway, not wanting to hurt your feelings as some of the reviewers were pretty harsh. Good luck!