The King of Carnations

 
This will be the first in a series of poems based on, but not directly chronicaling, the slaying of Dr. George Tiller, one of the few public abortionists. I don't know how far this will go, but I thought that it was an interesting subject.
 
 
 
part 1
 

  
she comes to you, white and huge, like a collapsing star
tight-lipped, with no one holding her hand. wheeled in on
a gurney with uneven wheels, so that one is turning, turning,
muttering its unoiled slang. the white walls draw in – smothering
and pure as doting mothers, swallowing her up as she clings
to her tugging, domed belly and clenches her fingers
into tight, unreasonable fists.
 

the first snow is falling, the clouds gray and heavy as frostbitten feet.
the tongs and scalpels on the tray, freezing and prying – beaked,
they clap sideways. you stand there as the nurses swarm her. she
is slick and plush as a queen bee, red, polished and prepared,
she moans, drugged so that her words slush out of her mouth.
 

yellow streetlights peer into the frosted windows, hushed and
curious. you split her open, like an urgent letter.
cold-fingered tools, rummaging, the toil and loop of cords.
she bends under your hands like a sapling in the moonlight,
white knuckles, capped mushrooms, stuttering breath and
the anointing blood caul, spilling from her, warm and red
as a confession.
 

it is a boy. he is purple and scrunched, raisin-fingers.
pathetic and breathless, your contraptions seize it, munch,
it crumples like a moth, leaving that silvery glitter
behind on your fingers and an emptiness in the
dark.
 

the night grows cold and silent and empty, like an old church
and its broken toy-bones are to be cremated.
she is sedated, deflated, and the nurses
hurry, their heels clicking on the tile, dispersing into the ward
like whispered rumors.

 
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Interesting.



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Kylan,

As I have said about many of your poems in Yellow, this is an enjoyable poem. Unlike some of those in Yellow, there's no hesitation in between words, no halted imagery. The words pull smoothly and project the story before us beautifully.

Your poetry is steadily improving.

I really enjoy your style of capturing the rush. It is beautiful, if such a word can be attributed to such an event, and your word choice throughout gives this a unique personification where we're not focused on the event, but you do not divert from the importance of it.

I'd strongly encourage you to finish this. Such an opening does deserve an equally well done, if not better, ending. On other notes, I got rid of the periods between the stanzas.

This does join your masterpieces. Keep writing, Kylan. Keep writing.

June

that was just INCREDIBLE and SAD and POWERFUL and a million other complimentary words. I'm so very very extremely jealous and I'm afraid you're going to have to help me write poetry because that was like, beyond. How can your poetry be steadily improving??? It's already freaking genius. xx

The way you made the outside world look over the mother-not-to-be is both detracting and appealing. It is good the first and last times were well written, but the middle one took us away from the story. I'm very proud of you for not writing about love. There was no love in this poem. I liked how you said the baby was a boy, it brought an identity to the fetus.

Hi Kylan,

I'm not going to go into too much detail with this one. I liked the beginning and the some of the middle, really showed the cascade of emotions present during the final steps to the abortion chamber and the enunciation of every sob, every uncertain heartbeat, in the mother's mind.

However, you dedicated exactly one line to the feeling and emotions of the baby itself. The ending wrapped up much too quickly; there was an injection of sudden, almost randomly placed, feeling and then the tidy operation itself and...then what? Nothing. The poem just ended.

You could defend this format by saying that you were perhaps trying to look through the situation in Tiller's eyes; if that is the case, then why steer the reader into empathizing with the mother's indecision and implied guilt in the first place? You're dithering between pro and con, condoning and condemning of the reader. Choose one.

Hope that helped,
Galerius

Hey Ky,

Ha, still on pregnant women, eh? Truly a topic worth much ruminating.

I really liked this, but I do think that the middle deviation into random exterior description jarred.

she moans, drugged so that her words slush out of her mouth.


yellow streetlights peer into the frosted windows, hushed and
curious. you split her open, like an urgent letter.
cold-fingered tools, rummaging, the toil and loop of cords.
she bends under your hands like a sapling in the moonlight,
white knuckles, capped mushrooms, stuttering breath and
the anointing blood caul, spilling from her, warm and red
as a confession.

See, I think you should move the streetlights description and begin the stanza with 'you split her open' so there's a smooth continuation.

she moans, drugged so that her words slush out of her mouth.

you split her open, like an urgent letter. yellow streetlights
peer into the frosted windows, hushed and
curious as cold-fingered tools, rummageing; the toil and loop of cords.
she bends under your hands like a sapling in the moonlight,
white knuckles, capped mushrooms, stuttering breath and
the anointing blood caul, spilling from her, warm and red
as a confession.

.....or something like that. In all honesty that's not too great a suggestion but it's 2AM and I can't sleep so I'm sure you can do better, is all I'm saying, in regards to that particular stanza break.

Otherwise, really liked it buddy.