Wanderer

might be best to read this after you read the poem:

Spoiler

this is an intensely personal poem. It is an attempt to write something personal without becoming maudlin, without sacrificing my art. The poem makes reference to my own poetry (pretentious... i know) and also to the Bible and to Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. Mostly I'm just trying to be honest and give what's going on in my head a tangible form. Enjoy this peek into my mind

WANDERER

1

Darling hours,
2007 and fresh snow covers
the driveways and pastures
along 95th street, a place for gliding
beneath skies of former blizzards, the entrails
of winter giants still steam on the horizon,
I have not forgotten them.

Maria and I, we lions
our manes fly and I
run and I run and I run

Maria, my Delilah
she cuts my hair for the prom
as we dance on former paws
until my bones are rain worn
and my house sits on my shoulders
like a child.

Maria, my Toru
she sees the wreath of tree hinges
and well-stones I hang in my room
she keeps the widow’s walk
as I wander fractals of bear fur, bong hits,
alternate moons, and Midwest downtowns
in brittle and wicked knots.

2

Maria and I leave the car windows open
when it rains. We kiss in aisles of corn that curve off
like mountain roads.

3

I never see Maria anymore, my shadow cruelly wired
to my feet by a half-dreamt surgery.

Maria holds a tin can to her ear
and I hold another to my mouth
they are connected 5500 miles by a lion’s whisker
and I don’t know where I got these dreams
of magpies and thieves.

4

Now Maria sits in every spoonful of coffee
every blanket fold and bed spring. I hate the comfortable
solitude of my apartment, the radiant darkness
of Midwest dawns that pour me like whiskey
into dying summer days. I bought a ring
a long time ago, hid it in a fever dream
where I changed my name to wanderer.

I say I do
to an empty sky
so the moon is my wife
and everywhere I look
Maria unfurls as blue and brown
Christmas flowers.

This is amazing. I'm glad you're able to voice what's going on inside you through this, you definitely made it haunting. I'm not sure what a few of the lines meant in literal terms, but the effect is pretty good, still, maybe better, being mysterious and elusive like Maria is. Your simillies, in particular, are enviable. I might expand this later, when I have more time. But for now, I'll recommend re-reading it and editing to clarify points that people not familiar with yoru story might have difficulty understanding.

Hi Perdido,

I shall keep myself at respectable distance as I'm not familiar with your story, or lots of your poetry or Norwegian Wood (though Murakami is wonderful). I thought this was wonderful, really. Emotion and personal story balanced and juggled smoothly with spice, flair, whatever you'd like to call it.

The rest of this review is very much personal opinion/interpretation so take it as you will.

What I got as a feeling from this was something I love, weight in my chest as I read it and after. A lot has to do with the fact your own personal style/voice. But what irked me a little was that your poem, despite its strength is I get a feel of inconsistency in perhaps, effort or depth through different parts of the poem. Like a function that goes into the negative regions of the graph before climbing back into the positives. Now I'd be okay if it was a little smoother in its inconsistencies as we're human we aren't unshakeable machines power-leveling through but they're so sudden and brisk and disappear as quickly as it began in some parts and in others we watch the poem drag its feet for far too long.

It's like you're controlling said details with slippery hands and you keep readjusting.

With poems like these, it's essential you don't drag your feet. Our hook stays with the feeling and personality you put forth and as soon as that draws back into it's shell there's not much more for us to do as a reader. So in the end, it's wonderful to have had so much faith put into us as a reader, but we're left with an faint sense of hesitation on your part.

But as I said, that's my personal view on it.

Little nitpick for you though:

2007 and fresh snow covers
the driveways and pastures
along 95th street, a place for gliding

good stanza in general, but this little piece throws me off flow wise. The enjambment strikes me as choppy.

sits in every spoonful of coffee
every blanket fold and bed spring

this is all the first bit makes me think of. But I like that movie a lot. (It's not that striking of an image in total, bland and despite its clear attempt at a specific feeling I feel it falls a bit flat)

Yours,

Kamas

Why didn't I read this more closely before? You just bridged the distance between Me and You.

perdido wrote:might be best to read this after you read the poem:

Sure thing, I've moved it to the end of my review to fit with my format here.

A review.

WANDERER

1

Darling hours,
2007 and fresh snow covers
the driveways and pastures
along 95th street, a place for gliding
beneath skies of former blizzards, the entrails
of winter giants still steam on the horizon,
I have not forgotten them.

Wanderer, a number indicating beginning. Not a numeral. Starting with numbers, familiar. Stages. But modern. Aesthetic appeal taking into account, WANDERER in caps creates an almost foreboding sincerity. Lingering disposition to a past feeling? Maybe.

Darling hours,
2007 and fresh snow covers
the driveways and pastures
along 95th street,

Personified view of time; I can hold it in my hand, especially with 2007. Now, I think you lost a concept here to play with more: Darling hours is personified yes? Well how do you make the darling more than a cute sentimental word? Because I want you to put yourself in that moment you're alluding to, but make it 2007 moments, make it 2007 images and sensations; you're not being specific and biting enough to the punch with "fresh snow covers...driveways...pastures....95th street(?!)", you become exact only with the final image, which is more semantic than anything else.

Maria and I, we lions
our manes fly and I
run and I run and I run

See, this is where you start to get more specific, but your attachment to the ground is starting to fly up to space; redux Space Oddity, David Bowie. You're making interesting language, but what's the image for these lines? How are we originally going back to "darling" within "1"? The key is personified time, to me at least.

Maria, my Delilah
she cuts my hair for the prom
as we dance on former paws
until my bones are rain worn
and my house sits on my shoulders
like a child.

This isn't too bad, but you need a build-up emotionally for this to carry impact where I hold especially strong investment in your characters and then the speaker. Again, your beginning is underwhelming because like the personification, you're jumping through time. Look at the natural groove you've fallen into; don't neglect nor forget what that hazy fog of tangled feelings is like Perdido.

Maria, my Toru
she sees the wreath of tree hinges
and well-stones I hang in my room
she keeps the widow’s walk
as I wander fractals of bear fur, bong hits,
alternate moons, and Midwest downtowns
in brittle and wicked knots.

Again, not bad, but I'm missing the connection to care deeply. Also, the first line, your references need to make sense especially since this is personal to you. I'm of the opinion that these are the most powerful forms of writing a writer can attempt: personal investment and owning the things which haunt us through learned control in our natural art form.

2

Maria and I leave the car windows open
when it rains. We kiss in aisles of corn that curve off
like mountain roads.

Again, time is jumping.

3

I never see Maria anymore, my shadow cruelly wired
to my feet by a half-dreamt surgery.

Maria holds a tin can to her ear
and I hold another to my mouth
they are connected 5500 miles by a lion’s whisker
and I don’t know where I got these dreams
of magpies and thieves.

Do you see how you're trying to make the passing of time a passionate hatred but sentimental experience? Makes me think of "The Scientist" by Coldplay. No offense if you don't like them, I love them. You have to capture the true expressive quality of time in this and wrest it into images which compliment the personalities you create here. I like, maybe even love, the bare-bones and rawness you display.

4

Now Maria sits in every spoonful of coffee
every blanket fold and bed spring. I hate the comfortable
solitude of my apartment, the radiant darkness
of Midwest dawns that pour me like whiskey
into dying summer days. I bought a ring
a long time ago, hid it in a fever dream
where I changed my name to wanderer.

I say I do
to an empty sky
so the moon is my wife
and everywhere I look
Maria unfurls as blue and brown
Christmas flowers.

Wonderful. This honestly makes me tear up, for personal reasons of my own. I could connect with this. I meant it when I said I hate liking works. Something has to have a voice for me. I would probably un-like 50% of what I have liked if I went and checked all of them; this poem is one of the very few pieces of writing on here that resonates with me, and will continue to do so.

Spoiler

this is an intensely personal poem. It is an attempt to write something personal without becoming maudlin, without sacrificing my art. The poem makes reference to my own poetry (pretentious... i know) and also to the Bible and to Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. Mostly I'm just trying to be honest and give what's going on in my head a tangible form. Enjoy this peek into my mind

Thank you.