Today's Poem: Underworld

The new and towering boy in outpatient
folds the lavish scaffold of himself
into a smallish chair as though
it were an ongoing task
to account for all his parts,
and he takes us in,
nods his smudge of beard
and smiles privately.
We've confirmed his expectations
—no malice or irony in it,
simply a kind of sweetness.
He's failed to kill himself
last weekend, and has landed
intact, marveling, interested,
his legs (I want to spell long
with two n's, as Milton spelled
dim with a double m
to intensify the gloom of hell)
craning into one another
then pushing his knees forward
into the speaking circle
where we weigh
ninety minutes
the tonnage of our shame,
the damage yours
only until exactly spoken.
Whose pain's not a common one?
And then the new man—
all of 22—stretches
his legs entirely forward
and catches my breath
with the name printed across
the tongues of his shoes:
OSIRIS, in bold letters,
maybe a brand too newly stylish
for me to have registered,
but the unlaced word prays
for us to just the right god:
Him torn to pieces,
each bit of His ruin picked up
each nearly unrecognizable
attended carried and mourned
and is it loved or willed
back into place: the man and boy's
body radiantly restored.
Or that's the hope he's poking
out at us, with his excellent shoes,
while we go on talking until lunchtime.

emXshorty wrote:The new and towering boy in outpatient Very good first line. It's very gripping, but without trying to be, if you catch my meaning.
folds the lavish scaffold of himself
into a smallish chair as though

it were an ongoing task
to account for all his parts,
and he takes us in, This stanza seems a little awkward, maybe you could alter it a bit. What helps with me is to read my work out loud to myself, and see if it sounds right.

nods his smudge of beard Brilliant metaphor!
and smiles privately.
We've confirmed his expectations

—no malice or irony in it,
simply a kind of sweetness.
He's failed to kill himself Ooh! Interesting!

last weekend, and has landed I think "last weekend" takes a little bit of drama away from the previous line.
intact, marveling, interested,
his legs (I want to spell long

with two n's, as Milton spelled
dim with a double m
to intensify the gloom of hell) This part actually made me giggle!

craning into one another
then pushing his knees forward
into the speaking circle I don't quite understand this stanza, it seems a little unclear. I think it may have to do with the fact that by the time you've read the brackets, you've lost track of where the poem was going.

where we weigh
ninety minutes
the tonnage of our shame, This is an absolutely brilliant stanza. Be proud of it.

the damage yours
only until exactly spoken.
Whose pain's not a common one? Another one I don't quite understand. Or is it just me being stupid?

And then the new man—
all of 22—stretches
his legs entirely forward

and catches my breath
with the name printed across
the tongues of his shoes:

OSIRIS, in bold letters,
maybe a brand too newly stylish
for me to have registered, Hehehe!

but the unlaced word prays
for us to just the right god:
Him torn to pieces,

each bit of His ruin picked up
each nearly unrecognizable
attended carried and mourned

and is it loved or willed
back into place: the man and boy's
body radiantly restored.

Or that's the hope he's poking
out at us, with his excellent shoes,
while we go on talking until lunchtime.Lovely ending, and very truthful about the human race.

This is a really good poem, and with a few tweaks, I think you could make it brilliant. You balanced out the humour and the drama perfectly, and you obviously have a very wide vocabulary. Some of your stanzas or lines wee a little awkward, and you lef thte reader behind at points. Maybe you could try reading it as if it was written by somebody else?

Overall- very good, but some points you can easily improve on. Well done!

Keep writing!

The new and towering boy in outpatient
folds the lavish scaffold of himself
into a smallish chair as though
(good diction)

it were an ongoing task
to account for all his parts,
and he takes us in,

nods his smudge of beard (how do you nod your beard? I liked the way you said smudge of beard)
and smiles privately.
We've confirmed his expectations

—no malice or irony in it,
simply a kind of sweetness.
He's failed to kill himself

last weekend, and has landed
intact, marveling, interested.
His legs (I want to spell long

with two n's, as Milton spelled
dim with a double m
to intensify the gloom of hell)

craning into one another
then pushing his knees forward
into the speaking circle

where we weigh
ninety minutes,the tonnage of our shame,

the damage yours
only until exactly spoken.
Whose pain is not a common one?

And then the new man—
all of 22—stretches
his legs entirely forward

and catches my breath
with the name printed across
the tongues of his shoes:

OSIRIS, in bold letters,
maybe a brand too newly stylish
for me to have registered,

but the unlaced word prays
for us to just the right god:
Him torn to pieces,

each bit of His ruin picked up
each nearly unrecognizable
attended carried and mourned

and is it loved or willed
back into place: the man and boy's
body radiantly restored.

Or that's the hope he's poking
out at us, with his excellent shoes, (good line)
while we go on talking until lunchtime.

I would take out the breaks in the stanzas and make all of the lines one right after another, for example :

"The new and towering boy in outpatient
folds the lavish scaffold of himself
into a smallish chair as though
it were an ongoing task
to account for all his parts,
and he takes us in"

Overall it was a very good poem and very unique, good job! : )

I simply love this poem! It totally changed my outlook on what the underw rold is like. I didn't completely understand it, but the parts that I did understand, I loved. I know you start it in the middle of the scene on purpose.... and that's ok. Leave it that way. Just give me more hints about exactly what is going on in the poem. I think that the speaker is in the waiting room to go to the underworld.... but I'm not sure. So, just clarify what's happening, and then your poem will be fantastic! I really liked the part about meeting Osiris and how you talked about his shoes so much. But, why are his shoes so important? Just wondering. Focus on all aspects of him. So, anyway, good job. I really really liked this piece!
-Cammie








The new and towering boy in outpatient folds the lavish scaffold of himself into a smallish chair as though it were an ongoing task to account for all his parts, and he takes us in, nods his smudge of beard and smiles privately. We've confirmed his expectations %u2014no malice or irony in it, simply a kind of sweetness. He's failed to kill himself last weekend, and has landed intact, marveling, interested, his legs (I want to spell long with two n's, as Milton spelled dim with a double m to intensify the gloom of hell) craning into one another then pushing his knees forward into the speaking circle where we weigh ninety minutes the tonnage of our shame,the damage yoursonly until exactly spoken.Whose pain's not a common one?And then the new man%u2014all of 22%u2014stretches his legs entirely forward and catches my breath with the name printed across the tongues of his shoes: OSIRIS, in bold letters, maybe a brand too newly stylish for me to have registered, but the unlaced word prays for us to just the right god: Him torn to pieces, each bit of His ruin picked up each nearly unrecognizable attended carried and mourned and is it loved or willed back into place: the man and boy's body radiantly restored. Or that's the hope he's poking out at us, with his excellent shoes, while we go on talking until lunchtime.