Finis. Exit.

edited

I like it! Its interesting and deep. It doesn't quite feel like poetry to me though, more like lyric prose. But of course that's just me. =)

Hi,

I really enjoyed this. Your imagery is great. I especially liked the first stanza and;
"where it smothered the marigold rising
out of a sidewalk crack" and "knit myself anymore regrets.".

I'd change "bare yellowed teeth" because it was a little boring and I'd give "hurled" a small 'h'.

Hope this helps,

Jas

Hi Melrose! I'm here to review.

I have to say, the more I think about this poem and read it over again, the more I like it. Your use of imagery really suits me and brings back all kinds of memories and senses. My favorite line would have to be, "and Hurled them out of my tenement window, with the plastic blue ceiling above. the bricks all around, with the neighbors distant and blurry behind dirty windows."

It brings to mind cramped, poor apartment buildings in the heat of Summer. It just works.

Anyways, I have nothing negative to say that's of note or hasn't already been said. Keep it up!

-Knightley

I'm not really much of an expert with poetry, but I think that was really deep, and you gave very nice description that helped me picture everything.And by the way, what does tenement mean?

This poem was very free-flowing and confused. You are good at poetic verse. Congratz at the decision to keep writing! Why ever would you want to stop?

Hello,
First. Wow. I instantly fell in love with your style. You really capture the halfway house between my two favorite places in the wonderland of poetry. There is the Isles of Pablo Neruda, and the brilliance sun of a new original talent. For a moment, I really felt like I was dreaming because my hyper-active imagination kicked in and for a few sleep-deprived seconds I couldn't figure how I was reading a painting. Oh, and if you are interested - it was a Monet. Which was pleasantly ironic to me, like fine cheese which has an addictive sweet and a bitter sting. I normally don't really care too much for him. He was a master. But now I can personally appreciate him.
You write a lot like my poem journal pieces. Which really freaks me out because I know I am a combination of a lot of my favorite parts of my most respected artist's styles - and just my own crazy thing. I am just so out of words. Wanna talk poetry in PMs? Let me know.

Thank you for sharing,
keep writing
Mandorlute

So, I'm a couple of days late, but I knew I couldn't resist reading this all the same. And - what difference does it make when this is read? A day, five years, a century? It is, to use your word, timeless and freely flowing between the ages and settings.

I took an archaic doll
baskets loaded with fine china
and whittled toothbrushes
I took a photograph of Palo Alto and
a painting of a Joshua Tree in the desert–
plus a well–worn hymnal
and a pot of Aloe Vera

Usually, I do not like lists of adjectives and nouns in poetry - lists in general actually. I prefer stories to still, unmoving images, and so the only verb of interest there is 'I took'. And the first time I read that, I ask: why? Why those particular items? Why the doll; furthermore, why an archaic doll? I haven't ever seen a doll described like that before - so I read on and try to string together a common idea linking all the objects together. I don't find one - fine china would suggest something breakable, whittled toothbrushes suggests something used, ready to discard, old photos suggests memory, as does 'well worn hymnal' and the Aloe Vera? Where does the Aloe Vera fit in? (by the way, remove the capitals - it doesn't need them, surely? Or are you trying to point out the significance of it to us - all the other objects have a dash of nostalgia and feeling about them while this is so much more concrete; aloe vera is a healing plant, so are you suggesting you are tossing out the thing that might heal alongside all the memories, used things and delicate items?).

Anyway, the descriptions are pretty, if not tight, and when I read the next bit, I wanted to go reread these descriptions again (I wanted to catch a last glimpse of the items before you tossed them out - seriously, I actually reread the first stanza!).

And there's nothing emo about it (yet) - just a soft beauty. The tone is lazy (you do not punctuate much - fine with me, actually), slow, as if you are fingering these items, really looking at them and thinking about them before you Hurl them out. It's a great size for the stanza, too - long enough to give us a good idea, short enough to make us want more.

(promising myself that I would not
knit myself anymore regrets)

This is a couple of lines to be read on the second or third read. I didn't bother with the bracketed words first-time round. That's because I'd had enough description, I didn't want any more reflection (i.e. thinking about what you are doing (and you know me well enough to know when I say 'you,' I mean the narrator)), and I wanted to dive straight into the action.

and Hurled them out of my
tenement window, with the plastic blue ceiling above.

Oh, and when I dove into the action, I scampered back again, did a rewind and read it all properly because I could not bear to see the items being tossed like that. The action in itself is assertive, confident, glorious even - the Hurled looked weird, but I'm rather fond of it, as clunky and bizarre as it looks; I'd say to keep it. It makes the action more vivid; I watch your arm, in slow motion, doing this extraordinary Hurling (the capital makes me stop and read the word more slowly, since I think it is important) - so I guess by assigning the word importance, you accentuate the action, the only action I have yet seen in the poem.

And 'plastic blue ceiling' was breathtaking.

the bricks all around,
with the neighbors distant and blurry behind dirty windows.
we watched it all fall
to the blank concrete below,
where it smothered the marigold rising
out of a sidewalk crack.

A section to be read on the edge of one's seat - I still read this holding my breath, mouth slightly open, as I, like an observer beside the narrator, am watching it all cascade down. Now, I forget wondering why you toss them in the first place. It doesn't matter - that singe snapshot of the falling items - that is enough to hypnotise me for the instant. 'Neighbours distant and blurry behind dirty windows' - how do you DO that? That is also glorious; it zooms out of the scene immediately (I'm thinking camera angles here)...and you bring us back to earth (pardon the pun), back to jarring reality when the consequence of the action hits us - 'smothered the marigold rising' - yet even then, it is a soft landing, a muted thump.

I smile, forcing the lips open
to bare yellowed teeth.
the moment wanders off
so I shutter the view.
my hands tremble– yearn, yearn
for stillness.
In the darkness all I am left with are cold fingers
and a deep void
hollowing the left side of my rib cage.

Here is perhaps the only hint of the why. The rest is a wonderful strip-tease, dramatic and intense, captivating. 'The moment wanders off' was cute, but seemed out of place for this poem since it seemed to belittle that moment - but I know that feeling, of having done something monumentous and then feeling like it was nothing, like it may as well have never happened. Thematically, 'my hands tremble - yearn, yearn [I don't like that word much, but alright]/for stillness' is significant - how? Cold fingers, deep void on the left side of the rib cage - suggesting the feeling of being heartbroken. And I suppose the memories (and the rememdy for the damage - the aloe vera) are what are being tossed away as a result.

Well...I enjoyed this poem; that goes without saying. Enough of an intellectual challenge without being too haphazard and skirting-the-issue, some drama, lilting descriptions - a remarkable story that I would love to reread anytime.

Thank you. And PM me .