Young Writers Society

Songs were strung underneath the floorboards,
harmonizing with the squeaks of mice and
nails that didn’t quite fit;
You’d worried away at the plank nestled below the foot of the bed,
and you could hear your secrets sing as you slept.

Grooves carved by habit marked your hiding place,
familiar patterns of this part goes here and this part loosens,
and this part lifts up into a scent of incense and memories and vanilla flavored smoke--
Inhale. Breathe and smile, and check
the door to make sure that mother has not yet opened it.
She is so nosy.

But you can hear her pitter-pattering down in the hall, rebuking the closet
for being altogether too messy, and you hear a clunk and a clank
and a muttered curse that she doesn’t realize she’s spoken--
and your arms loosen and your face
falls into that smile that seems impossible without the smell of unearthed wood.
Inhale, inhale, inhale, reach
and breathe out as your gather all those sweet nostalgias and photographs to your chest,
smothering them in the pulse booming into your skin, a thudthudthud
like running in the field with your feet all bare and wet.

And you breathe in the blooms of cigarette smoke and daffodils as you gather the songs,
delicately plucking each one from its rest with a practiced, nimble rhythm,
and you press them into your pores, hoping
to take their scent into your body and make things as they used to be,
when you could sit for hours and laugh at the cloudy sky,
and dance without ever moving.

But the warmth of guitar strings is startled away like finches with the creak of the door
and the stain of two peering eyes,
a voice asking,
“May I come in?”, which actually isn’t a question at all,
and there are rustlesrustlesrustles as you stuff down memories with a scowl and a
mutter of things you can’t quite recall right now,
gold and white and green and gone...

Author's Note:


Thanks for reading!
-Coral-

The only suggestions for improvement I have to make are: You don't really need to start the fourth verse with "and," and I'm not sure of the ellipsis at the end. Maybe just a period?

But as usual, I love your imagery and power and, as usual, I am insanely jealous.

Awesome job, and sorry I'm almost never actually helpful when I leave comments about your poems....

~Blue

your gather= you gather.

The way you break off in stanzas seems chaotic, which doesn't, in my opinion, represent the mood of the narrator. The person speaking is more at peace with her memories, delving into sweet thoughts, so the breaks should be more melodic than scattered. And as the mother comes into the picture, the thoughts become more and more chaotic, and would then flow better with the mood of the entire poem. I would love to see what happens when you edit this, so keep me posted!

~Panda;;

Hey there Pers!

I disagree with Panda (Sorry Panda!) when I sat that this poem flows amazingly. As I was reading it, a smooth and comforting voice came to mind. I don't know how you did it, but it seemed to slow down my thought process. It made me calm. The only problem I have with this is I'm not sure what it's about; it can be interpreted in many ways, and I'm not sure if you want that? For example, the first time I read it I was like "Oh what a cute poem about childhood!" and then the second one I got the impression that the parents were crazy, or that maybe the father was doing uncalled for things? I only think this because it seems as though your character wants to hide under the floorboards, but it could be that they just don't want to grow up. So I don't know what this is about, and I would suggest that you put in a few more hints as to what the main point is.

You’d worried away at the plank nestled below the foot of the bed,

So, this either needs to be "You'd worry" or "You worried." You can't have both! xD

“May I come in?”, which actually isn’t a question at all,

This is the part that kind of gave me that whole "Parents are creeps" vibe, but I could just be misinterpreting. Just wanted to let me know.

As far as grammar goes, you're excellent at it. Other than the first quote, there are no mistakes, as far as I can see.

I'd just work on what you want this poem to be about, and you should be good. If you want to leave it open for interpretation, good, that's your choice! (I don't personally like poems like that, but, you know, it's not my choice.) Just try to eliminate any lines that contradict with the happy feeling of this poem, like the second quote. It gives your poem a hypocritical vibe.

I love this, and I hope to read some more of your poems!

Thanks for the request,

Classy

Hey,
Thank you so much for the request . This was a very pleasent read. Your imagery is so powerful. The only thing I didn't like is that the wording of the lines seemed awkward at times. Like certain lines seemed to long, or they ended before the should have. I wished I had more to say, but all I can think of is praise because it is quite a cute poem. Keep up the good work.

have a good day,
Tiffany

Hey hey! Why thank you and don't worry, request as many reviews as you like, whenever you like!

You've got a pretty solid title and a nice framework to this poem, though it's a lot looser than some of your others. I don't think your images are as tightly wound together, not necessarily a bad thing, but it makes the poem feel vague and leaves the reader less satisfied. I love some of the images you've got here but there's something I'm not quite sure about and I think it will take a second reading to work out what...

Songs were strung underneath the floorboards, [Good first line. Sets the scene wonderfully and starts that imagery building.]
harmonizing with the squeaks of mice and [Mice under the floor-boards, that's a little too cartoon for my liking. Have you ever heard mice squeak under your floors? It changed the scene from something that I can picture very clearly into a cartoon sketch. Actually, the image I got in my head was those old Beatrix Potter episodes where the mice scurried about in the walls. There's more interesting imagery to focus on. What things do you find under floor-boards? General fibres from any rugs in the room, the odd dusty marble or thumb tack perhaps...]
nails that didn’t quite fit; [Good detail.]
Yyou’d worried away at the plank nestled below the foot of the bed,
and you could hear your secrets sing as you slept. [Lovely sibilance, creates a very nice flow.]

Grooves carved by habit marked your hiding place, [I'm not the biggest fan of this line. It's hard to say after the very soft, lilting end of the previous stanza.]
familiar patterns of this part goes here and this part loosens, [Not sure about this line either. Perhaps something like, 'And in the dark, practiced hands find those pressure points']
and this part lifts up into a scent of incense and memories and vanilla flavored smoke-- [Good imagery.]
Inhale. Breathe and smile, and check
the door to make sure that mother has not yet opened it. [I think you lose a little of the flow here.]
She is so nosy.

But you can hear her pitter-pattering down in the hall, rebuking the closet
for being altogether too messy, and you hear a clunk and a clank
and a muttered curse that she doesn’t realize she’s spoken--
and your arms loosen and your face [I'd suggest bumping 'falls' up a line, it would flow better, look better and the word would get more emphasis that way.]
falls into that smile that seems impossible without the smell of unearthed wood.
Inhale, inhale, inhale, reach
and breathe out as your gather all those sweet nostalgias and photographs to your chest, [Now! This is the important thing, these nostalgias. Is it just photos? Other stuff? It would be cool if you ended this line at nostalgias, and then had a semi colon and went into a sort of list of what nostalgias there are. not too listy, more... a snap-shot image of each item. A line describing each and then a semi colon and the next.]
smothering them in the pulse booming into your skin, a thudthudthud
like running in the field with your feet all bare and wet.

And you breathe in the blooms of cigarette smoke and daffodils as you gather the songs,
delicately plucking each one from its rest with a practiced, nimble rhythm,
and you press them into your pores, hoping
to take their scent into your body and make things as they used to be,
when you could sit for hours and laugh at the cloudy sky,
and dance without ever moving. [Not finding much that I love in this stanza. I think it needs something to make it more powerful. A stronger image or something more than, 'Oh and he had all these nostalgic thoughts of his happy youth' because we've got that impression already and this isn't a particularly personal description of it.]

But the warmth of guitar strings is startled away like finches with the creak of the door
and the stain of two peering eyes,
a voice asking,
“May I come in?”, which actually isn’t a question at all,
and there are rustlesrustlesrustles as you stuff down memories with a scowl and a
mutter of things you can’t quite recall right now,
gold and white and green and gone...[I don't like the ellipsis here but other than that a nice ending line.]

Hmmm. I think your plot's a little loose on this one too. At times I got the feeling that this was an adult male looking back and remembering that space under his floor-boards, but of course the mother comes in at the end which suggests that this is still a kid and not someone who's grown and uh... it's just hard to follow at times so maybe try to clear that up.

I love the second person perspective. It's effective, really involves the reader and makes for a good tone.

Overall, it's a nice read, but this type of poem's effectiveness lies in making the reader feel that same sense of nostalgia and it currently doesn't do it for me. There's not enough detail on the items hidden under the floorboards and it would be more appealing if their were flashes of memory there as well and a clearer plot/ setting. There should be a firm story behind this.

Sorry for the delay on this by the way, hun, and I hope you find my comments useful,

Heather xxx