Young Writers Society

Scarlet petals leaked from her skin,
danced between torn pores to the world above,
a rose perfume strong enough for the sharks to smell
in the ocean that roared two miles away.
Tears, salty as those waters,
fell with a silence that lent quiet
in the midst of brutality.

She cried out as her piano-player hands
scrabbled against the floor, searching for safety
when she was shoved to the ground.
Her knees burned from the rough rug beneath her,
but she caught herself well, for her body was practiced
in the art of survival.

Another singer’s scream ripped through the air,
as once again, he grabbed her hair,
accompanying her hurt with a harmony of yells,
of demands and rhetorical questions,
drifting through the walls of the flat,
roaring above the static-y crescendo
of the wincing neighbor’s radio.

A slap proved to be the eye of the storm,
and even the stereo seemed to be muted for a moment,
when she stood and raised her hand like
she’d never done before,
but had wanted to for such a long time.

Everything was still,

until time approached once again,
and they were plunged once again into the fury
of harmful winds and hurt,
as his face contorted into a hurricane of hate.
Her cries grew louder with his fury, seemed to sprout
from that red mark on his cheek, shaped so delicately,
with an almost graceful slope to her rare defiance.
The people across the hall turned up their music
and tried to drown themselves in shameful ignorance but
their guilt sang louder than the stereos could go.

Mourning-glory marks
would decorate her on the morrow,
when he’d turn to her with tears and apologize,
and she’d mumble some words,
and try to forget the monster inside her house.
The neighbors, chancing upon her in the hallway,
would turn away and stare at the wall,
hollow apologies in their hollow eyes,
when they happened upon her husband’s
display of love: a beautiful bouquet of mottled black,
blooming across her lovely face.
She would have nothing for them, no explanations, only humiliation.

Those shame-faced neighbors, who'd put their
brave foot forward and resolve to make the call,
let their backbone wither again and again,
not wanting to create trouble,
not wanting to be involved,
took their hands off her release, her rescue from the man
she used to know, the man she can’t help but love,
who teaches her silence
with the back of a hand and a whole lot of hate.






So, I still don't really like the end. I know that there's too much imagery, but I don't know what else to cut out. And cutting lines always hurts. >.<
Any thoughts? I'd love any suggestions or comments, even if it's something like "meh".

Thanks!
-Coral-

I like it.... you can never have too much imagery!!:)

Hi Persephoneia,

I'll try my best not to ramble but give you my honest thoughts. I hope they will be in some way be helpful to you.

This piece really affected me. I felt compelled to read it from the start, but by the end there was a tight, noxious feeling in my chest. I guess there's no way to tiptoe around something like domestic abuse, and I admire the bold approach you took.

I like the metaphors- the returning flower bit as well as the musical metaphor that came up now and again.

A year or so ago, I read a poem about child abuse called "Daddy's Waltz" (or something along those lines). You can make a guess as to what metaphor the author used. With that poem, I felt the metaphor padded the narrative; the poem was still disturbing, but in a distant, melancholy way. The audience could read it, shed a tear, then say to themselves, "somewhere, far away, this kind of thing happens to a faceless, nondescript person I'll never meet. It doesn't really affect me at all."

Your poem is quite different. The audience is not given any way out. It really makes one squirm, particularly the last two stanzas.

From a more technical persepctive...

I felt that this bit, "Everything was still,/and they were plunged once again into the fury/of harmful winds and hurt,/as his face contorted into a hurricane of hate," was a little short. One doesn't have the chance to note the "stillness." One gets the feeling what has just happened, the woman's effort at defending herself, was surprising to both herself and her husband, but one isn't really given the chance to observe the effect it has.

In summary, I think you have written a stirring, affecting piece.

Sincerely,
Rae

Hi!
I thought this was a really beautiful poem in a twisted way. I loved pretty much the whole thing, I'm just going to have a go at reviewing the ending.

Those shame-faced neighbors, who'd put their
hands on a phone, but lost the nerve
over and over again, not wanting to create trouble,
not wanting to be involved,

I think this bit looses the tone of the poem. You move away from your elaborate and beautiful metaphors, and actually tell us exactly what happened and how they felt. I think it would fit better if you described it in some other way.

took their hands off her release, her rescue

in this line you come back to metaphors and it sits much better.

from the man
she used to love

this is probably just me, but I would rather you went more into the emotions of this relationship. Did she really only used to love him? Surely she is still emotionally attached to him if he can manipulate her into silence. If she doesn't love him anymore then why doesn't she seek help?

who taught her silence
with the back of a meaty hand.

I'm not sure I liked the word 'silence' being in bold, just because that wasn't used anywhere else in the poem. I think your words are powerful enough that you don't need formatting to emphasise them. That's just a personal preference though. I'm also unsure about the word 'meaty', but I'm not really sure why. It's probably a very apt description, it just didn't fit too well for me somehow.

I hope something in there is helpful!

-pigeon

Just as a point of interest, I have also read "My Papa's Waltz"...

Anyways, I like this for the most part. I do, however, agree with this:

Those shame-faced neighbors, who'd put their
hands on a phone, but lost the nerve
over and over again, not wanting to create trouble,
not wanting to be involved,

I think this bit looses the tone of the poem. You move away from your elaborate and beautiful metaphors, and actually tell us exactly what happened and how they felt. I think it would fit better if you described it in some other way.

This was the one part I didn't really like, for the same reasons as my fellow critic offered. The poem sort of loses some shine here and becomes blah for these four lines.

Also, unless you intentionally called it a "mourning-glory" to tie the misery and flowers together...it's "morning-glory," no "u." Unless, like I said, it was intentional.

And I like the word "silence" in bold IF it's in bold because, say, the husband yells it at her when hitting her...not right at that instance, just if he does generally and that's why it's in bold there...if you get my meaning. Otherwise, yeah, it's pointless because your words have enough drive on their own without special fonts.

Hope this helped!

~Blue

hi! pointe2drama here as requested!

Scarlet petals leaked from her skin,
nice intearesting way to say blood

danced between torn pores to the world above,
a rose perfume strong enough for the sharks to smell
in the ocean that roared two miles away.
Tears, salty as those waters,
fell with a silence that lent quiet
in the midst of brutality.

She cried out as her piano-player hands
scrabbled against the floor, searching for safety
when she was shoved to the ground.
Her knees burned from the rough rug beneath her,
but she caught herself well, for her body was practiced
in the art of survival.

Another singer’s scream ripped through the air,
as once again, he grabbed her hair,
accompanying her hurt with a harmony of yells,
of demands and rhetorical questions,
drifting through the walls of the flat,
roaring above the static-y crescendo
of the wincing neighbor’s radio.

A slap proved to be the eye of the storm,
and even the stereo seemed to be muted for a moment,
when she stood and raised her hand like
she’d never done before,
but had wanted to for such a long time.

Everything was still,

until time approached once again,
and they were plunged once again into the fury
of harmful winds and hurt,
as his face contorted into a hurricane of hate.
Her cries grew louder with his fury, seemed to sprout
from that red mark on his cheek, shaped so delicately,
with an almost graceful slope to her rare defiance.
The people across the hall turned up their music
and tried to drown themselves in shameful ignorance but
their guilt sang louder than the stereos could go.

Mourning-glory marks
would decorate her on the morrow,
when he’d turn to her with tears and apologize,
and she’d mumble some words,
and try to forget the monster inside her house.
The neighbors, chancing upon her in the hallway,
would turn away and stare at the wall,
hollow apologies in their hollow eyes,
when they happened upon her husband’s
display of love: a beautiful bouquet of mottled black,
blooming across her lovely face.
She would have nothing for them, no explanations, only humiliation.

Those shame-faced neighbors, who'd put their
brave foot forward and resolve to make the call,
let their backbone wither again and again,
not wanting to create trouble,
not wanting to be involved,
took their hands off her release, her rescue from the man
she used to know, the man she can’t help but love,
who teaches her silence
with the back of a hand and a whole lot of hate.


I like this, to much imaginary in some parts though.

~pointe