Young Writers Society

I found the wind
aching
in the corners of a stone market, a cripple, a beggar addicted to the needle in the vein smell of spice,
an arterial love that fed the corners of his mouth like he were a fish,
bleeding from the blandness of the sea.

It flinched, crumpled into itself,
whispering that its time had come, because all times must come. The fading days of life were his fading days of sound: the trees needn't lose their leaves on his account, he could not bear to blow another house down, see another weeping willow, child, man, another splintered body or waterwashed eye;

I taught myself how to spin thread, how to knit and sew and press flowers into books like they were poems.
Roses were always the most difficult, the biggest,
and they smelled like Shakespeare, Shakespeare feverish, forsaking his name--
but the scarves-- the scarves smelled like spice from a Sunday, kneels knelt and the haunting chime of bells,
a call to prayer, a seraph more beautiful than God.
A man tangled one round my neck, told me I was beautiful, and through my blush I saw his alleycat eyes,
teeth glint, fingers click against his beard like they were looking for coin;

silk noose unwrapped: I fell into the lip of a lantern and pressed roses to my face,
trying to drown in the seraphs calling me too early in the morning, marble, porous poems;
In between the words, somewhere in the cast light of glass, I wondered where the wind was,
if it could ever wash the spice from me again.

Wow.

Just... wow.

I really am in love with this poem. I felt as though I was standing there, watching this whole story play out. The words were so beautiful, as though the girl as nothing to prove and was just watching the seraph sing to her, tell her she is beautiful. The lines are not weird at all, on the contrary, they seem to be perfect for what you are saying. Did anyone ever tell you how gifted of a poet you are?

Wow, again.

- Bo.

Holy crap! This is, like, professional-style writing that not a lot of young people can do. You were really vivid and creative in your desriptions, and the meaning seemed really honest. I love this. Good work, and I hope my review helps!

aching

I think having this word on a line all its own is a bit much. It brought the flow to a grinding halt for me as "aching" felt overly-emphasized. I think it would be better merged with the third line.

in the vein smell of spice

On the one hand, I like the vain/vein play to be had here. However, "smell" was a bump in the rhythm. The line reads more smoothly without "smell", so I suggest either omitting it or expanding upon the vein smell so that the flow is preserved.

press flowers into books like they were poems

This image is so familiar, but I can't remember where I saw it. D: It's still lovely, regardless, though the sense of "seen it before" is a potential detractor.

One thing I noticed was that you seemed to switch between referring to the wind as an it and he, which could be quite confusing to some readers, especially since it's quite late in the poem before he is actually revealed. You might want to consider adding a bit more apparent separation between the wind and he sections to lessen that confusion.

Overall though, all I really had were nitpicks. Your imagery is as lovely as usual, and the use of longer lines really enhanced this piece, gave it a greater sense of cohesion and flow. However, there were a couple of areas where the flow tripped up, and I've pointed out the most persistent ones. Others took a bit of figuring out to establish their rhythm due to a sudden change, such as "a beggar addicted", so it would be a good idea to see if you could somehow better cue in these changes of rhythm.

Otherwise, there's not much else to say. XD

Penezenka,

I said I'd review one of your things and boom! Here I am.

We all know you can twirl us into a colourful and image-filled frenzy, flow is lovely and all. But what's the purpose of this piece? Yes, it's written off a prompt but you haven't taken us anywhere, you've twirled us on the spot with a dizzying array of words but we find ourselves in the exact same place without anything to take away beside a vague sense of "hey that was a cool idea." and we'll have forgotten what this said by the time we've selected our next piece to read.

You have the technique to make this a worthwhile read but lack the punch under the dress-up to drive it anywhere. It's skin over bones without the vitals to make it live and breathe and move around and shake loose the kinks in its neck.

silk noose unwrapped: I fell into the lip of a lantern and pressed roses to my face,
trying to drown in the seraphs calling me too early in the morning, marble, porous poems;

All that possible sensation left empty to my disappointment, I want to stick my face in the roses and feel the silk but it's nothing but a distant memory that isn't mine.

Vibrant but empty, soulless. Perse, to get that kick that spice in your poems, to give them a little joie-de-vivre you have to back them with feeling, with personality and little piece of yourself. If it's meaningless to you, it's going to be equally meaningless to us. I shouldn't have to push you to post something, rather you should want to hear what people think (good and bad). If you hate the piece, it's going to be as easily detected in your poem as love for it will be. You matter when you're writing because you're the puppeteer behind it and everything is, in the end, it's all going to come back to you.

Don't give yourself the hardship of draining your poems.

Kamas

Wow, what a long review, Kamas. I'm just going to tl;dr that for those of us that don't have time to read a novel.

Kamas wrote:Boom! Punch under the dress, I want to stick my face in and feel. Kick that spice in.

lololololololololol. how dare you deface my review. <3