Ready your swords

Honestly, as I was reading that piece I just kept thinking to myself "those are a lot of wishes." This is so hard for me to criticize because quite frankly and no offence to you at all, it is very dramatic but it is mostly chaotic. The character seems to be living in a world of regret and just raw depression. You certainly have a lot of your "ideas" clearly represented in this piece but it seems very loose. I found it difficult to connect areas together as it did not seem to lead to what you were going to write about next and if it did it would be very unclear and in a sense, random. Mind you that does not apply for the entire piece and I do consider it somewhat well done as a good poem should not be easily understood and your poem certainly fits the criteria of a good poem.

By the way:

break the spelll

You should remove one "l" from spell

Sincerely.
-Elitehusky

and break the spelll;

You have two Ls in the word "spell" here.


This is beautiful. I love your metaphors, and you have such a mastery of language. You always have. But what do you want your audience to feel/think/believe/do after they read this? It isn't written to me (the reader) it is written for you. It evokes no emotion in me (apart from my amazement at your use of language) and so I don't like it. I know you're a good poet, but some of the things you are writing now seem to lack life, and vibrant emotion, and more than anything, they encourage nothing me it. It brings nothing out of me and it gives me nothing. I'm not sure how you could fix this. I think it is a matter of subject matter, and writing about something that your reader can associate with and understand. Or I have no idea what I am talking about.

I like it, and I found myself singing-yes singing-it in my head. I'm not even going to try to explain why I think its good because I'll just end up getting it wrong and making a fool of myself.

Main purpose for comment:

To say this:

If I were good at poetry this is the kind of poem I would write, same with songs, I wish I could write a song this intense.

Elitehusky,


Thanks for comments and sorry for the chaos. =]


Cheers,


Suzanne,


An astute observation re: life in my recent poetry--namely, there is none. [I'm well on my way to quitting the habit altogether, as it were]. Sorry this didn't touch or inspire you at all; I suppose my only response could be that all I've ever done is write for me and, simply by using the tools of the trade, cloaked it. Now that you've all grown up and gotten so smart, you realize the Master never knew what he was talking about--truth is a miscommunication, after all.


Grazie,


author13--


Thank you for the surely undeserved praise.


Take care,

Brad

Um...It kind of confuses me to some extent. It sounds kind of like a love poem, but at the same time a heart break poem. Perhaps it is a love poem gone ary?

There was only one thing I really didn't like -- how repeatative it seemed. "I wish I had learned" stood out so much in the first stanza that it started to get on my nerves. As it moved on, it got better though.

I really liked the way your first stanze kind of melted into the second. I don't know why, but that intrigued me in a way.

Good job and Happy Writing!

~Bella*Maria~

Brad, I didn't have a problem connecting anything together here, and I thought it was probably the most powerful and moving poem you've written. The chaos and confusion others had probably means they didn't look close enough. I love how each image can be seen as both its own poignant vignette and a contribution to the overall theme. I'll try to give comments as I go through it.

"Last night you were not here
and I could not sleep."
-Cleopatra (1963)


What a whiner.

That's an amazing way to begin a poem. The quote is appropriate for what follows, and your response to Cleo is crushingly priceless, as usual.

I wish I had traveled enough to be an atlas
of desired places and recipes.

At first, the idea of being a directory of desired things and locations seemed old to me, and also confusing, since one doesn't usually ask for both directions and recipes, but then

I wish I had learned
Madame Zulu's techniques for splitting a heart
in two and pinning nine needles through each chamber.

is just gorgeous, and a magnificent response to the opening quote. I love the African/ethnic theme throughout this piece, and how you conjure (no pun) images of magic in the simplest of things. This sent chills up my spine as it gave me both a feel for what "recipes" you were talking about (getting superstitious in your old age, are you?) and unified the recipe with the map/atlas.

I wish I had learned deconstruction so I could ride the long, long,
longer than days away spent missing you, legs that stretch out
and parenthetically pull me in close.

The comma at "...missing you," is initially distressing. However, after reading this so many times, I think it's a great way to point out how the saddest things are in what we consider beautiful.

I wish grammar
had taught me the syntax of love, the cadence of breaking

and putting things back together--your stilted punctuation,
my stifled signs and symbols all jumbled together
in an empty white space, those breaths between, a quiet
that creates how we mean.

Wow.Perfect enjambment here.

Again, this is a fantastic response to Madame Zulu (I keep thinking of Josephine Baker, by the way), and how black magic requires the careful procession of action and words.

I wish my fingers were a compass
to navigate the pages of our desire;

As an image by itself, this one is fairly weak, but I think you saved it with the slight reference to Ouija boards and divination.

I wish our love were not like bruises
that bloom every time we touch. I wish I knew
how to kindle more than a fire
that burns an oak to ash.

The bloom/burning contrast here appeals to me. Since I know my grandmother used to talk about spells and stuff, the first sentence sounds exactly like the consequences of one of the curses you would put on people (except it misfired, I'm guessing, since you don't know the techniques or the way to say things). Then "burn[ing] an oak to ash" is a majestic display at how poorly the N understands his craft--I'm sure you're probably aware how the Oak is considered the first tree, the one God created first, by the Druids and many other pagan cultures, and its uses as a place of worship. This is so complex, I'm not even sure I understand all of what you're saying, but I'm sure someone will.

And nothing is left to remember--no hearts spliced in two
but my own, no road map from here to happiness--just the smoke
that rises slowly, turns and flees.

I love this! The remnants of religion fleeing from man, and not the other way around...

No notes on how to speak
and break the spelll; no recipe for luck in love and money.

This is sad.

There are the roads
and the rhythms of our unintelligible song; there is the scent of regret
that purrs along the folds of these old clothes and the sting
of things remembered.

So much superstitious references, and I love how you've taken the idea of love and magic and recreated it in terms of a clumsy caster.

I have only a picture to interrogate
the fossils of tenderness--

What a cool way to return to splitting hearts in two.

this is an inheritance of knives,

beautiful.

so many kinds of hunger, and over it all a patina
of silenced rage that puts me to sleep when you are not here.

This is a great return to the start. I'm always floored at how your poetry meets itself at the end, even if it isn't always in the most explicit way possible.

Overall, this has been one of the best poems you've ever written, and I can tell, despite your comment, that you really put a lot into this. It's such a refreshing change of pace from the rest of the threads!

I enjoyed this. A few suggestions:

long, long, longer than days

I'm not sure whether I like this or not. Personally I found it sounded awkward in my mouth, and I'm questioning whether the effect is worth the cost of the reader's momentary faltering.

your stilted punctuation,
my stifled signs and symbols all jumbled together
in an empty white space, those breaths between, a quiet
that creates how we mean

This is beautiful. Maybe remove "an". It's absence lends it a slight, yet smooth quickening of pace that is nicer on the ears.

pages of desire

This is cliché.

I wish I knew
how to kindle more than a fire
that burns an oak to ash.

While a pleasing concept, I don't think it's removal would be of any detriment to your poem. While the ashes and the "nothing left to remember" may have been interrelated, I think this could be better achieved simply by allowing the third stanza to speak for itself.

I find it difficult to determine in the first two stanzas, whether this "love" is an on-going business, whether it is past and the writer is simply reminiscing, or whether it ends by the third stanza. I'm wondering whether or not changing the line to something like this would remove any uncertainties:

"I wish our love was not like bruises,
blooming every time we touched."

Or something of that nature. This also strengthens the correlation between the end of the second stanza and the beginning of the third.

And nothing is left to remember

Remove "And". Perhaps replace it with "There".

money

Money seems too materialistic in a poem of this nature. I suggest you remove/replace it.

Otherwise, well done.

Cheers,
Cameron

I love how this begins, with the phrase in italics (I'm not sure whether to consider the quote as the start of the actual poem or as the preface to it). To me, it gives off the sense that the line itself is whining.

I wish that the "I wish" lines in the first actual stanza had led into each other a bit more. Yes, they all say something related to each other, but... it's like each phrase is accented, where I think it would be better as legato'd.

I wish I had learned deconstruction so I could ride the long, long,
longer than days away spent missing you, legs that stretch out

I am jealous of the linebreaks here ^^

Generally, I hate repetition. Here, I've forgotten it's included. Just letting you know that it's appreciated.

I have only a picture to interrogate
the fossils of tenderness--this is an inheritance of knives,

Something sounds off about "fossils of tenderness". Like it's old and dusty, ready to snap at any moment, and that may be true, but "fossils" seems to connotate something dry and boring. That's just me, though. I like the "inheritance of knives" bit.

Perfect ending. Of course.

There's something big here, and it annoys me that I can't quite get at it. But, I suppose, that's a good thing.