Wildflowers

An experimentation with my version of a double woven prose poem. Enjoy.
(Also, if you have a suggestion for a better title do tell.)


--


The piano key hills mirror the slow pressure of a the maestro's fingers

(groaning out before falling silent, one by one)

the extensions of most, rough and callused like that rock
you like to gaze from, pensive like the being they call the thinker,
always perched and wary sculpted from a masterful touch
but the puppet in his eyes has always been real,
more real then before with its wooden face
carved with grime and rot from when you dragged that marionette
to the field of wildflowers, each standing nervously,
reaching for each other in frightened groups
as you bury your broken toy with tears.

(A new toy for me)

The wildflowers like damsels in willowy dresses,
positioned for execution. Each probed
until a peculiar one is discovered, pale and dressed
in profuse white lace, blond locks piled atop of her head.
Beside her, a slouching beauty, her delicacies painted in red and black
with starry sunrise eyes, like powdery hummingbirds that fly so briskly.

(What I want)

Svelte and gentle, graced with leaves to add to their physique and
petal-stained cheeks. A less than leonine posture, but enticing
with lips: amble and cherry-coloured. Lest I reach for that white dress:
barely drifting up in sight of a zephyr. Or the blacks curls:
chopped and soft, hidden behind vibrant carnival red.

(Let me reach)

Just to take them out, unroot their stems
and strip their leaves until I'm left
with only the blossoms, naked to my eyes.
Caress the petals with benevolence, but take one to keep,
one for the box under the mattress, for a simple memory
before the blooms wilt and their ugly cores are revealed.
Before that let me bury them with my marionette.

that was cool Can not think of any other names (sorry) please pm or yahoo messenger me If you think of one or write anything else. *<:)

This is something you have to read a few times in order for it to sink in completely, which is a good thing. Your descriptions are fascinating, and I envy your metaphors :] Brilliantly done.

-Allie

Hi Kamas,

Forgive me if you detect that this review is sub-par in any way, for I am writing this while being forced to listen to the cacophony of the Dora the Explorer theme song emanating from the nearby television.

Kamas wrote:The piano key hills mirror the slow pressure of a the maestro's fingers

(groaning out before falling silent, one by one)

the extensions of most, rough and callused like that rock
you like to gaze from, pensive like the being they call the thinker,

"like the being they call the thinker"? Why not just "the thinker"? Don't get ahead of yourself when attempting to lengthen your poetry; sometimes it mushes up until it's made up more of connecting words than words of actual content, as in this example.

always perched and wary sculpted from a masterful touch
but the puppet in his eyes has always been real,
more real then before with its wooden face
carved with grime and rot from when you dragged that marionette
to the field of wildflowers, each standing nervously,
reaching for each other in frightened groups
as you bury your broken toy with tears.

(A new toy for me)

Slow down. I am guilty of making this mistake myself on more than one occasion, but one sentence going on for an entire paragraph? That might have even been acceptable had not this paragraph contained so many ideas dancing with each other and letting one hand go to simultaneously clasp another's, a liquid mosaic of movement that's too hard to anyone to grasp in a single sentence. Split it apart into... something. I don't know. Different pieces. Arrange them as you wish.

The wildflowers like damsels in willowy dresses,
positioned for execution. Each probed
until a peculiar one is discovered, pale and dressed
in profuse white lace, blond locks piled atop of her head.
Beside her, a slouching beauty, her delicacies painted in red and black
with starry sunrise eyes, like powdery hummingbirds that fly so briskly.

(What I want)

Svelte and gentle, graced with leaves to add to their physique and
petal-stained cheeks. A less than leonine posture, but enticing
with lips: amble and cherry-coloured. Lest I reach for that white dress:
barely drifting up in sight of a zephyr. Or the blacks curls:
chopped and soft, hidden behind vibrant carnival red.

Again your problem seems to be wordiness, and I noticed the unneeded passive voice lurking somewhere in there too.

"until a particular one is discovered" <---- why is this passive, and in such a feeble tone? Read it out loud to yourself. That can't possible display any emotion, considering your choice of words in describing it. Making it work while in a passive voice is tricky, so your best bet is to change it to active voice. After all, this poem isn't about the flowers, although they may indeed be major players. Keep the reader's attention on what matters.

While we're talking about passive voice, I might as well expand on when passive does work, in my experience. If you're trying to move the magnifying glass / telescope of the reader's eyeball from one particular image to another, then you want to change from active to passive or vice versa. It shows that first we're looking at an object or event from one lens, and then the camera pans to another face and now the reader knows who is truly the main character. Think about the way the movies usually introduce protagonists - not outright, but by first focusing on a few secondary characters and passerby and then casually moving the camera onto the main character's figure. Think of the use of active/passive in such a way. A difference of focus, so to speak.

"A less than leonine posture" <---- This too is not showing us much of anything. What can we imagine by "less than" anything? A leonine posture? But it's supposed to be somehow "less" than that. If it's less than leonine, then find a words that means "less than leonine" or an image that represents that instead of simply telling us what this is without bothering to let us see what it is.

(Let me reach)

Just to take them out, unroot their stems
and strip their leaves until I'm left
with only the blossoms, naked to my eyes.
Caress the petals with benevolence, but take one to keep,
one for the box under the mattress, for a simple memory
before the blooms wilt and their ugly cores are revealed.
Before that let me bury them with my marionette.

This is not bad. Most of my comments focus on the middle of the poem, the "meat" of the poem, anyway. So do revise that section and post this again sometime. I'd like to see what it looks like once polished.

Hope that helped,
Galerius

The piano key hills mirror the slow pressure of a the maestro's fingers
(groaning out before falling silent, one by one)the extensions of most,
rough and callused like that rock you like to gaze from,
pensive like the being they call the thinker,
always perched and wary sculpted from a masterful touch

Alright, Kammy. I don't have much to say about this, but I did like it once I picked up the momentum. Just a couple of things:

1.) The first 3 lines, that image, are the best in the entire piece. That's a brilliant comparison. Very nice.

2.) When you reference the thinker, it just sounds a bit wordy to me when you say "the being they call the thinker." Try just "the thinker."

Dassall.