At Last

The adrenaline unfolds into the last act of defiance

On a the hollow wounded field, where venture capitalists applaud each hit,

Seeing only platonic tackles and the wondrous parabolas of the football.

On the losing side a single boy throws up his hands.

Seeking only the chest of his already jubilant opponent.

Choking back the spit rushing to his lips.

No matter how he laughs at his matted hair and bruises in the mirror,

He can only now execute the final play of this futile game.

Like going over the top at Marne, or the last dinner in a foreclosed house.

You, my friend, are a master of circles. You bring around the audience to a full cavalcade of emotions from revolution and proletariat uprising in the beginning, to despair and desolation, and back to the same pointless struggle at a higher degree. I will not pretend to offer my own interpretation of this poem as it is probably off the mark, seeing how as a poem reflects life, it should have meanings that transcend what I can adequately type. However, rest assured that it made an impact on me and the sheer gritty working-class tone of the piece offered an insight - or perhaps an illusion? - into the eternal tug of war between a human and his collared soul. As the time ticks to a close near the end of the poem (the two scenarios of doom being so different in quality and superficial nature but yet so alike! You have a unique power of bringing together the unlikeliest of aspects and having them make perfect sense), I felt it. I knew it. I got it, without actually having to "get it" in the literal sense of the term. Really, your ability to compress and infinitely weight every word is your power. Good job, and I hope to see much more of this coming my way.

Well, errtu2,


I got no impression of a gritty, working-class tone from this, and what it has to do with a proletariat uprising I will never know. What I do know is that after having read some of your crits, I'm a bit disappointed. This is riddled with poor word-choice, nonsense imagery and disconnected ideas. I'm going to go through it line-by-line for you.


The adrenaline unfolds into the last act of defiance


Adrenaline is not something I consider to "unfold." Unfolding tends to connote mysteries or something with beauty or elegance; defiance is none of these things. It's a poor word-choice in this context.


On a the hollow wounded field, where venture capitalists applaud each hit.


I have no idea what a hollow, wounded field is. Fields are not three-dimensional objects with an interior to qualify them as being "hollow." Poor word-choice. Likewise, the appearance of venture capitalists is bewildering as they neither appear further on nor seem to serve any purpose at the present. It's clear enough that you're making a (poor) attempt at political satire by likening football to war, but if you're not going to sustain the connection, why bring it up in the first place?


Seeing only platonic tackles and the wondrous parabolas of the football.


"Platonic tackles" are at odds with "adrenaline[-fueled] defiance." "Wondrous parabolas" is excessive. Why so many adjectives when you aren't going to coordinate them? The full stop at the end of this line equally baffles me, as do your punctuation choices from here on: they jar the reader rather than confer the slow-motion failure of losing the big game.


On the losing side a single boy throws up his hands.


Okay.


Seeking only the chest of his already jubilant opponent.


I'm not a fan of football, but I don't understand this at all. Don't they shake hands? Or is he meant to be wanting to tackle him? And in any case, what does this have to do with anything since it gets dropped as soon as it's brought up?


Choking back the spit rushing to his lips.


You would choke on spit in your throat.


No matter how he laughs at his matted hair and bruises in the mirror,


I have no idea what just happened. The abrupt machine gun-lines stopped and now we get a comma and a change-of-scene to--where? Where did this mirror come from? And the matted hair and the bruises?


He can only now execute the final play of this futile game.


Unless there are mirrors on the field, I'm doubting what he's about to do is execute the final play of a game.


Like going over the top at Marne, or the last dinner in a foreclosed house.


These are perhaps the only salient images in the entire poem, and they have absolutely nothing to do with the previous story or each other. What relation could possibly exist between a football game and fleeting references to venture capitalists, a military strike, and foreclosures?

Figure out what you mean to say and say it. At present, your poem is as superficial as the ones you slam.


All the best,
Brad

I suppose its easier to understand if you have played the sport.