The Green Room

In the green plant taste,
so tart and thin and dry,
which makes for velvety tongues
and toadstool faces;

in the green,
a lamented sadness;

in the sharp soggy green
is a narrator
who speaks in outdoor voices.

The thick green man
spoke in his outdoors’ voice
as she played the violin;

in the green,
she played unripe betrayal
evening, dusk, and dawn.

In piles of powder green papers,
damp and peeling pieces,
soft silks falling,
disarray,
a forest stationary,
she played the dead plant song.

In the green,
lives a permanent poverty.

In the green room,
said the narrator voices,
violin girl lay
weeping and rotting.

In the green,
said the narrator slowly,
are many sad stories.

I like this. I can't quite understand it, but I do like it.

Hello!

It sounds like you've got an interesting concept here, an interesting story, but as yet I can't quite see what's going on. You don't have to hit us over the head with it, but I think making the situation a little clearer would make the poem more accessible. You have some great imagery here, though, and again, what sounds like an interesting concept--the green room. I could almost see writing a story or flash fiction about this. It might go somewhere you wouldn't expect it to.

I also was dubious about some of the line breaks and stanza breaks. They sometimes feel a little overdramatized to me, and I wonder if you wouldn't do better to let the images speak for themselves rather than creating those long, dramatic pauses at every turn. That kind of pause is more effective when used sparingly.

Hope this helps. Keep writing!

~Stripes

Mandorelute --

You have some very nice imagery and language here. I've always enjoyed the colors green, blue, and yellow in reference to literature. They bear such striking impressions and feelings. Blue, the color of silence and night and women. Yellow, the color of old people and debauchery and sunset. And green, the color of rot and mystery and secrets. I wonder if you've ever seen the film Sybil, about a woman with a multiple-personality disorder? This poem reminded me of the kitchen in which Sybil's mother tortured her, which was also green.

Anyway, enough of my tangents. I have a couple of comments. In some places, this poem displays inconsistancy which I'm not sure was purposeful or not. You begin the poem in present tense (possibly to set up the scene outside the scene?) and then switch to past tense in S4. Also, you sometimes refer to the narrator as a single person, and at other times, you refer to the narrator as many people ("a narrator" vs. "narrator voices").

Pardon me if I'm misinterpreting things, but I definately see a story here. Here, it's presented very surreally, sort of like a dreamscape. But you talk a lot about the narrator himself, without actually describing much of the real scene. And when you do describe the scene, it's not a living, breathing scene, but rather, a snapshot of one. The "characters" are still-life. In that respect, this poem is very stiff and confined. I think that perhaps the greatest flaws of this poem are it's lack of coherency (too much switching between "characters" and narrator) and it's lack of movement. There's no change. You are, in essense, describing a snapshot of something. It's possible that this poem is just one big symbol, but if so, I don't see it.

These lines annoyed me:

The thick green man

In piles of powder green papers

because they break from the pattern you've set up -- "in the green", or some close variation of that. They're out of place. They immediately destroy the cadence you've constructed around the poem. I'd alter them so that they read like the rest of the stanzas.

Anyway, good job. I'll be looking out for more.

-Kylan

Theme of the Runaway

You’re the kinder branches long dream’t of
from her compass of windows,
with her green eyes made for looking out,
processing the predictable:
In the end,
ashamed and sitting pretty,
still indoors and unsatisfied.

But, remember, dreams get bigger,
brilliantly so,
likes trees planted - seeds grow;
rain comes in (through where her branch-like arms burst the seams)
seemingly seeping,
leaking love through these visual windows in these sensual walls:
In the soil of your love
and rain of your pain
where better to sow wonder?

Worrisome ceiling corners crack under the barrage,
Precipitation of nightmare fears and faithful dreamings.
What an ill and sorry strength holding it together,
the strength it takes to turn invisible,
(quietly accepting being oh so wrongly brave and miserable)
In the skull, cracks grow
such a sorry canopy,
crown worn by king, pauper, and fool.

But you’re the kinder branches long dream’t of
Nurtured by the implosion:
we don’t belong indoors
she gives in, surrenders.
In the beginning,
hands raw and stained,
we'll plant forbidden seeds.

Love will grow.