grief

i.
our crepe paper lungs were failing already,
big breaths bottled
into our grey stomachs like iron clasps,
pinching together the lining of our organs
into origami creases and the
methodical twists of gears--
we hold our breath so we can still believe
that we can breathe when we wish to.

ii.
the steeldrum hums into our hollow bones
and falls into folds and
withering words that write our pale little cranes
with their broken wings
and crackling feet,
oily feathers stained with gray rage.

they are silent lies and nothing more
when the steeldrum stops,
because the click-clacks of crane beaks
are much more persistent than that.

iii.
boompulse of big brickhouse whistles
smoke, railroads tire of pull from tracks and
baggage. tired tickets too, traced
with nervous fingers and worried into
tiny birds, all yellow and blue and
white, bled together in
comfortable creases and wrinkles,
assuring ourselves that we are not dreaming,
but this is not bad.

iv.
soon the windows cave into
splintered glass ponds
under tentative feet, and the trains
spout dust and rage to the air,
startling bellows making our eyes and ears
tear.
here is where you found me a crystal in the concrete,
showed me how red mixed with white
so eloquently, how a water wash works
on creased cranes just as well as
canvas.

v.
your breath tastes like diamonds,
like winter air too far up for me to reach,
something more than what I have and am
not sure I want though you always did.

I can almost taste it in the glass
still caught in my hair,
see it through the broken mosaics in my eyes
and I'm wondering where the rest of it went,
wings worried all away,
washed red.

Spoiler

In case it isn't obvious enough, each number represents a stage of grief. The stages are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

Hello perse! I havent time for a full review now (expect one soon) but I just wanted to drop you a line and tell you how amazing I thought this piece to be. It was so imaginative and you've expressed these stages of grief so beautifully. My only critisism would be that perhaps you went a little overboard on the prose in places, but, as I said, i'll do a full review later tonight. Thank you for producing such a lovely emotive piece of writing. Be very proud of yourself!
- Amelia

My poetic expertise is only about up to my ankles, so I probably shouldn't be pretending to help you with this, but I thought I might as well give it a go. Just to let you know: through this review there were a lot of places where I wanted to say something along the lines of "but I'm probably just being a dweeb and not understanding/misinterpreting what you were going for" but I didn't type it every time. I'd like you to take it for granted with any points that I make.

I really liked this poem. Unfortunately, I read the spoiler before I read the poem (an awful habit--I'm trying to break it) so I don't know whether or not I would have gotten the meaning in the sense you meant, but I know I would have gotten the basic feelings. Your descriptive talents are (as you probably know) fantastic, and the way you've woven pure emotion out of words blows my mind.

In the first stanza, you have something interesting going on because you start off by saying that the lungs "were failing already" meaning, I suppose, that the narrators were weak before whatever it was that caused the grief to set in? But I'm a little unclear on what of that stanza was supposed to be when, since you switch from past to present tense and the line between the two is a little fuzzy. Also, you've got an interesting contrast between the paper-imagery (crepe-paper, origami) and the metal/mechanical-imagery (metal clamps, gears), but I don't really see a pattern to them. Is the metal always crushing the paper? The parallel and contrast is nice, and I think the mix between vulnerability and brute strength is a great way of portraying grief, but I think it would be more fitting if I got the sense that the paper was denying the fact that it was being crushed by the metal rather than just having both images floating around.

The second stanza is rather magical. I can hear the drums beating through the whole thing, like an angry heartbeat of pulse pounding in my ears--and I have no idea how you did that, since there's no particular rhythm to the words which would lend itself to that imagery. I have to say, though, for Anger I'd like to see something a little more... explosive. It feels broken and defeated, but I would guess more that it was a description of someone who has been broken by external anger, not their own. It feels like the aftermath from a storm of anger, but I don't get the sense that that storm started inside the narrator. Maybe because the first stanza felt so intimate and this one feels more detached, with talk of feet and wings rather than organs and lungs.

The third stanza definitely has a feeling of bargaining. It makes me think of people going into a quaint town, with a little train station and brick houses, and negotiating. I thought the ending of the stanza was weak, though. The "...we are not dreaming/but this is not bad" just felt so casually worded that it stuck out from the rest of the poem. The whole stanza felt childish a little, in a nostalgic and almost quaint way, but that part felt childish in a sort of haphazard way.

In the fourth stanza, I think you start pulling things together. The imagery of trains from the third stanza and feet and cranes from the second stanza come back, as though anger is turning to depression. Also, something interesting happens now--it turns from "we" to "you" and "I". I think, in this stanza, the "you" is that voice inside the "I" telling them to sink deeper into depression, even to harm themself ("red mixed with white" being blood and skin?). And a fragile part inside the "I" (with the return of the paper imagery) is ruined, or at least damaged.

The acceptance in the fifth stanza happens between the two "characters". The "you" (who was once so close to the "I" that they were "we") is growing distant and removed. "I" is still damaged, still broken, but there is hope of moving on--like some sort of a deal was made with the "you" and their paths are diverging, though they will always remember each other. I think the end of the stanza feels a little weak to me, especially since it's the end of the poem. I sort of want to have an end that looks into the future and gives me some sense of life going on after the poem, but instead you turn backwards on yourself and make the end retrospective. I found that disappointing, because it doesn't feel like acceptance to me, not really. But maybe that was the point?

Anyhow, this is a lovely poem and I've really enjoyed dissecting it and thinking about it. I wonder if you could capitalize on the point where "we" becomes "I" and "we" a little more, though. I have my own interpretation of what you meant by having it split, and it is most likely different from yours, but I like it and I'd like to see it happen more strongly.

Sorry if I've just wasted your time by rambling pointlessly.

a

Hi! Back as promised! OK, so my thoughts and corrections are in the bold print:

Persephoneia wrote:
i.
our crepe paper lungs were failing already,
big breaths bottled
into our grey stomachs like iron clasps,
pinching together the lining of our organs
into origami creases and the
methodical twists of gears--
we hold our breath so we can still believe
that we can breathe when we wish to.

So this was denial, wasn't it? Although I had to really concentrate to interperit this stanza ( I didn't read the spoiler beforehand) I did 'get' this particular aspect of the stanges of grief. You've used language beautifully here. I love the way you clash the image of delicate paper ( origami) with 'iron clasps'. The last two lines were a bit lengthly and drawn and when I was reading them it was like 'spit it out!' I'd reword these lines. Perhaps:
'We breathe,
still believing that we can
breathe whenever we wish.'

ii.
the steeldrum hums into our hollow bones
and falls into folds and
withering words that write our pale little cranes
with their broken wings
and crackling feet,
oily feathers stained with gray rage.

they are silent lies and nothing more
when the steeldrum stops,
because the click-clacks of crane beaks
are much more persistent than that.

This stanza, I feel, Is a little more messy. If I hadn't have been aided by the spoiler, I wouldn't have understood you to be expressing anger. The only clue is the 'gray rage' bit. And, sorry If I'm totally not 'with it', but what are these 'Cranes'?

iii.
boompulse of big brickhouse whistles
smoke, railroads tire of pull from tracks and
baggage. tired tickets too, traced
with nervous fingers and worried into
tiny birds, all yellow and blue and
white, bled together in
comfortable creases and wrinkles,
assuring ourselves that we are not dreaming,
but this is not bad.

Beautifully written. I understand this stanza and what you are aiming to portray through your words. I love the tone of the stanza. Although I didn't quite 'Get' the previous stanza, I felt the tone to be different, more powerful and, well...angry. This was more mellow. Words like 'nervous', 'assuring' and using the analogy ( I think that's what you call it???) of Birds - petite, gentle creatures - gave the stanza a more calm flow. I also like how you use no capitals. It gives your poem edge and quirkiness and makes it raw and dense.

iv.
soon the windows cave into
splintered glass ponds
under tentative feet, and the trains
spout dust and rage to the air,
startling bellows making our eyes and ears
tear.
here is where you found me a crystal in the concrete,
showed me how red mixed with white
so eloquently, how a water wash works
on creased cranes just as well as
canvas.

Another well-written stanza. I get the whole 'depressed' mood from it. This stanza was the most sucsessful, in my opinion, because you made me sympathise with the speaker who seems weary and emotional. I don't know If it's just me, but this canvas and crane and paper ect thing is weaved throught the poem and I don't quite understand it. PM me if you like. v.
your breath tastes like diamonds,
like winter air too far up for me to reach,
something more than what I have and am
not sure I want though you always did.

I can almost taste it in the glass
still caught in my hair,
see it through the broken mosaics in my eyes
and I'm wondering where the rest of it went,
wings worried all away,
washed red.

This was a very effective final stanza. Why? Because I feel the acceptance of your speaker, the almost mature, calm voice behind the words. I see someone who is still sad and down and grieveing, but who is making an effort to pick up the pieces of her soul.


Wow. I think this has been my longest review EVER! As I said before, this piece inspires me to write and frustratedly try to match the quality and depth of your prose ( and I'm going to have a go...who knows, I may give you a run for your money...haha lol) I wish I could *like* this again! I sincerely hope you get a feature!

~ Amelia

Hey,

I'm here a review! My comments are in red and stuff I like are in dark green. It'll look a bit like a Christmas tree by the time I'm done.

Edit: The stuff I want to talk about will be highlighted in blue. I finished the review, previewed it and saw how confusing it was.

Persephoneia wrote:i.
our crepe paper lungs were failing already,
big breaths bottled
into our grey stomachs like iron clasps,
pinching together the lining of our organs I'm not sure how I feel on the highlighted bit. It's fantastic imagery but it leaves me a little squeamish. Maybe that was your point?
into origami creases and the
methodical twists of gears--
we hold our breath so we can still believe
that we can breathe when we wish to. These two lines = love.

Overall, I'm assuming here that you are writing about the first stage of grief, which, if I remember correctly, is denial. I think you portrayed it pretty well (if that was what you were trying to portray, of course), but the part where it says 'failing already' makes it seem as if the person is not in denial, but knows that what has happened, could of happened and obviously, it has happened.

...

I'm not sure that makes any sense, so PM me if it doesn't. Other than that, great first stanza.

ii.
the steeldrum hums into our hollow bones
and falls into folds and
withering words that write our pale little cranes
with their broken wings and crackling feet,
oily feathers stained with gray rage.

I love the highlighted but I don't think that gray is a proper word for this stage. It's anger, isn't it? Shouldn't a more passionate color be used to describe anger? Unless you view anger as something dull and diluted? -shrugs- Also, I highlighted 'broken wings' and 'withered' for the same reason. Something broken seems like it's forever lost, it cannot be attained ever again and anger is when you haven't accepted that it's gone, that you continue to fight it, so maybe breaking would fit better? Also, something withered is something dying or already dead. In my opinion, anger is perceived as hot and passionate and animous and alive; not dead and wilted.

This entire stanza had brilliant imagery and a great use of words but I don't think that you portrayed the emotion anger as well as you could have. You've made this more like giving up, forgetting, dying.

they are silent lies and nothing more
when the steeldrum stops,
because the click-clacks of crane beaks
are much more persistent than that.

To be honest, I didn't understand the above part at all.

iii.

I don't remember what this stage should be so I'm googling it and it's...*one Google later* bargaining! Alrighty. LEZGO

boompulse of big brickhouse whistles
smoke, railroads tire of pull from tracks and
baggage. tired tickets too, traced
with nervous fingers and worried into
tiny birds, all yellow and blue and
white, bled together in
comfortable creases and wrinkles,
assuring ourselves that we are not dreaming, I think that all of this was very good.
but this is not bad.

I don't know whether I like this stanza overall very much. I read this before I checked that it was bargaining and found that I couldn't really tell anyway. You need to emphasize on the pleading, the begging a little more, I think. I've thankfully haven't had to deal with this sort of loss, so I'm basing most of this on movies, books and my best friend, who lost her father early this year. People often beg to God. Maybe you can incorporate that somehow. It's totally fine if you don't thoug I like the train imagery and I loved how you used worried as a direct verb.

iv.
soon the windows cave into
splintered glass ponds
under tentative feet, and the trains
spout dust and rage to the air,
startling bellows making our eyes and ears
tear.
Overall, I liked this but I felt like it would work so much better as anger. This is what I imagine anger to be like, bellowing and tears and dust and rage all swirling around in a tornado of fury (That sounded weird.). I like the train imagery again and how you've incorporated it into another part of the poem. I don't see much depression in this; only anger.

here is where you found me a crystal in the concrete,
showed me how red mixed with white
so eloquently, how a water wash works
on creased cranes just as well as
canvas.

I see acceptance in this, especially the last three lines. I really can't see any depression in this, maybe other than the first line. Of course, your imagery is great, although I'm really not getting the point of the reoccurence of the paper crane imagery. I don't feel it works very well. I see the water washing off the canvas, making it bright and new, something that should be painted over with memories and pictures and life, but I know that's not what your going for..

Overall, this part was perhaps your weakest and your strongest. You portrayed anger perfectly in the first stanza and acceptance perfectly in the second. I had a much longer, in depth version of the review of this part but then YWS stopped working for like 15 minutes and this part and the next part was gone. >~<

v.
your breath tastes like diamonds,
like winter air too far up for me to reach,
something more than what I have and am
not sure I want though you always did. Such strong, beautiful imagery and vocabulary.

I can almost taste it in the glass
still caught in my hair,
see it through the broken mosaics in my eyes Perfect.
and I'm wondering where the rest of it went,
wings worried all away, washed red.

Overall, I liked this stanza very much. I think that almost everything was perfect. The last line, however, bothers me. It reminds me of anger and someone being blinded by anger, because of the use of the word 'red'. When people see the color red or the word red, they automatically think of red things or words that co-insign with red. So they might see blood gushing or fire which reminds them of passion and life and heat which reminds them of anger (all this happens in nano-seconds of course); which is why anger is often associated with the color red. So I see the word red and think anger but we're on acceptance here, not anger and it confuses me. Maybe 'Washed clear' or 'Washed white' or something to that affect would work better?

Spoiler

In case it isn't obvious enough, each number represents a stage of grief. The stages are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

Oh my gosh. There is a spoiler with all of the stages. I fail so hard.

ANYWAY. I loved this. The imagery was amazing (other than the paper/crane thing. I liked it in the first stanza but the repeated occurence seemed pointless and didn't tie in well) and the concept itself, of writing a poem with each part a different stage of grief, was pure genius.

I don't have much more to say. This was an excellent poem and never stop writing, ever.

I hope that what I said helped and if you have any questions, PM me.

Grade: A-

~jas

So we talked about this.

Persephoneia wrote:i.
our crepe paper lungs were failing already,
big breaths bottled
into our grey stomachs like iron clasps,
pinching together the lining of our organs
into origami creases and the
methodical twists of gears--
we hold our breath so we can still believe
that we can breathe when we wish to.

ii.
the steeldrum hums into our hollow bones
and falls into folds and
withering words that write our pale little cranes
with their broken wings
and crackling feet,
oily feathers stained with gray rage.

they are silent lies and nothing more
when the steeldrum stops,
because the click-clacks of crane beaks
are much more persistent than that.

iii.
boompulse of big brickhouse whistles
smoke, railroads tire of pull from tracks and
baggage. tired tickets too, traced
with nervous fingers and worried into
tiny birds, all yellow and blue and
white, bled together in
comfortable creases and wrinkles,
assuring ourselves that we are not dreaming,
but this is not bad.

iv.
soon the windows cave into
splintered glass ponds
under tentative feet, and the trains
spout dust and rage to the air,
startling bellows making our eyes and ears
tear.
here is where you found me a crystal in the concrete,
showed me how red mixed with white
so eloquently, how a water wash works
on creased cranes just as well as
canvas.

v.
your breath tastes like diamonds,
like winter air too far up for me to reach,
something more than what I have and am
not sure I want though you always did.

I can almost taste it in the glass
still caught in my hair,
see it through the broken mosaics in my eyes
and I'm wondering where the rest of it went,
wings worried all away,
washed red.

Nice, a poem full of things I can taste, touch, feel, hear, and see. Five Stages of Sensory Info. Oh, but guess what cliche I'm pulling out of my coffer. The Sixth Sense that makes any writing something special. Personal investment? Not really. Voice? That's only part of it.

Purpose in art, maybe that's closer. I would call it vision. And leave it as something nebulous. Right now, this is a series of descriptions that while they are interesting and unique perhaps, are also not quite clear in what they want to do.

I aim at these visions a lot. I try to impart to people that, YES POETRY DOESNT NEED TO BE CLEAR, but why then do some poems leave us frightened and curious and wondering and leave us completely questioning our life? Why do they come back years later to us? Said poem embodies vision, vision that says something about life, and the gripping reality of that understanding is that we the reader have to figure that out. It's up to us to fill and empty that cup that's been masterfully crafted in whatever fashion the poet/writer wanted.

And maybe the cup is a lie. Maybe all fiction is a lie. Maybe life is a lie. So maybe art is a joke. So then writing with a vision is truly masterful, because despite the insanity of existence, we try to be sane for fleeting moments when creating art.

Get you some sanity in this girl and make it even better.