Young Writers Society

Thought I typed my poem into my phone...but it doesn't seem to be there now...perhaps I deleted it by accident. Did I write one?

Thurs:

Splash of wine
seeping into
one-flow blood,
sluggish, sluggish,
now removed
from friends and
libraries,
receptions, poetry,
each butterfly net
for serious thought,
and it's far too cold to sleep
outside a tunnel.

Inevitable spirals
scaping
fragments from
my mind,
the shield I hung
behind my eyes
to stop my thoughts from
drifting three hours away
to where you lie
in nesting with a void
in your too-silent home.

Fri:

Colour Me Permanent

Colour me permanent-
no transgressionary traveller
taking
one bed tonight
and fading by morning,
pockets full of pictures
of the dead,
and my siblings
before they started aging.

I'll sign in blood.
I'll put my scars
behind cameras and place
prints as identification,
part of a human chain,
interspersed with evergreen,
and I'll take
summer, summer, summer,
no autumn, and no spring,
and it
will all die down in winer if
it even has to die.

Last night
I was myself.
Seven years ago
I was twelve
pushed into brittle
tea with Death
and leaving
some months later
when I could eat again,
and be alone again with-
out simply crying
around and through my pen.

Three years ago my
friend faded out,
and
I wasn't there
at the end,
or even in
the final chapters.

Two weeks ago,
or one, or three,
he went behind
a solid screen
and I walked out while
you said goodbye,

and now you're alone

and I'm stuck on repeat, repeat, repeat...

and all I have is memory,
far too impermanent for me.

Saturday;

Buying A Rolling Pin On Saturday Night

She boards the bus in darkness,
a wooden rolling pin
peeping from her shopping bag,
sniff sniffing with
a pinnochio nose.

Midnight baking,
or a cake for Dawn,
to lure her in,
to make her beam
and spread her warmth past
kitchen sanctuary
with its weighing scales
and measuring cups.

Floured elbows,
pink flushed face
replace
make-up masks
and lying tan.

And the oven door
will certainly open.

Sunday

Magpies and my Mother

Three magpies
(that's a girl, I guess.)
circle round
a fallen thrush
ensuring that
it won't get up,

until my mother
gets the brush
and takes her own
flight to the back.

"Leave him! Let him up!
Shoo", and "Shoo!"
and up they fly.

Perhaps it will be
a girl next time.

April 14: Haha. Okay, this really is quite an insane little poem but I adore the originality and it flows surprisingly well. I think your irregular layout is pretty nifty and I really love that last stanza. I'll not pretend to understand any meaning behind the words but... I really don't have any suggestions for changes. It's good.

April 15: The imagery in this one is gorgeous. I'd suggest a grammatical changes to the first stanza:

I am cat-curled and melting
into thirsting blades of grass,
my palm newly speckled
with half-moons and cs, [I'd suggest either a full colon or a full stop here.]
other fingers braided with yours,
my eyes shut.

but other than that, I can't fault it. Your words were very well chosen and I particularly liked the beginning of the last stanza. I'm not sure about that ending actually. The stylistic positioning is nice but I think that you could have created a higher atmosphere by describing the heat a little.

Wednesday (1): A suggestions:

drinking in the shade
cast be literary [I think you meant by?]
giants,

I'm not sure about this one. The idea is nice and it's well executed at first but it grows weak towards the end and the repetition wasn't very effective. I think you need to work on making your point a little clearer. I'd suggested re-writing the last two stanzas.

Wednesday (2): I loved the repetition in this one and the playful and at the same time a little spiteful tone of the narrator. The lines flowed beautifully and I could picture everything really well though I do think you could have made the beginning longer, about how the children come from the sky. It might be quite fun to dedicate a whole stanza to that little fantasy. I liked this one!

Thursday:

Time is slowly eviscerating
my every dram of substance- [Call me silly but... dram?]

This one was okay and some of the imagery was well thought out but I think it was a little plain and it rambled a touch. Maybe see if you an cut it down while still conveying the same message?

Friday: I'll admit I didn't like this one. It was too bland and lacking in any real sense of meaning, imagery, emotions or narrative, of which every poem needs at least one. The first line could be a strong introduction to something else, however and I suggest keeping them in mind to be recycled later.

_____________________________
Going to bed but will comment on the others soon xx

Colour Me Permanent

Colour me permanent-
no transgressionary traveller
taking
one bed tonight
and fading by morning,
pockets full of pictures
of the dead,
and my siblings
before they started aging.

I'll sign in blood.
I'll put my scars
behind cameras and place
prints as identification,
part of a human chain,
interspersed with evergreen,
and I'll take
summer, summer, summer,
no autumn, and no spring,
and it
will all die down in winer if
it even has to die.

Last night
I was myself.
Seven years ago
I was twelve
pushed into brittle
tea with Death
and leaving
some months later
when I could eat again,
and be alone again with-
out simply crying
around and through my pen.

Three years ago my
friend faded out,
and
I wasn't there
at the end,
or even in
the final chapters.

Two weeks ago,
or one, or three,
he went behind
a solid screen
and I walked out while
you siad goodbye,

and now you're alone

and I'm stuck on repeat, repeat, repeat...

and all I have is memory,
far too impermanent for me.

I love this. I simply love it. It started out a little slowly, but then...I really enjoyed it! I mean...obviously it needs a little work. But far more lovely than anything I've written in a day.

Buying a Rolling Pin on Saturday Night had an interesting premise, but I'm not sure the poem really got past that. You handle the language very well, but it's just not going anywhere for me right now.

Magpies I don't really...get...

Blaah, I feel awful for writing such a sorry review. But I reeeeeaaally liked Friday's...so lovely...

-Colleen

Thanks a million you two. I'll look at editing later this week. Here's yesterday's...it's only a measly haiku as I didn't get home until after eleven...

I never pictured
the future as fragmented,
altered and unwhole.

*cringe*

Another haiku from yesterday...I'll try to make today's count...

Evening's elation
is eternally ecliped.
I'm rotting outwards.

Ok...I'm so tired it's not even funny. Haven't even started the story that I intended to write this month and I meant to read a collection of poetry today as study, and I haven't opened the book. Let's hope this works.

Wednesday April 30th 2008

I really could have done without April.
Spring isn't so sweet upon the third taste.
This month's skin is ghost-soaked and bruising
at the thought of graves and shriveled power.

Maybe there's no point when you gain control.
Each day is a to-do list and a rush
to, ever-moving, scratch off each item,
lest Conflagration should attempt to glut
on your worthless, greying hide. This morning

was the proper time to sleep. Getting up
didn't help even one thing to get done.
And I have just over-heard my poor mum,
little life-raft, saying that she's been told

that one task is left undone every day
to ensure that the bereaved leaves her bed.
I can feel my hours shriveling up
at meals and in front of the tv screen,

or in my too-slow rush to get tasks done.
And now the rebirth is almost over
but I'm not so sure that it touched my skin,
or my mind, or the minds or skins of those

nestled with me in this cavernous hole
which gets ever more wide, ever more wide.

(Sometimes I scare myself...)

Saturday (1):

Youth
is an arrogant age.

I love this phrase but sometimes your structures confuse me. Why not have it all on the second line?

Beauty and insight
are not the same-
but you try telling
the beautiful that.

[This could be phrased better. I'd suggest -
Beauty and insight
are not the same;
try telling that
to the beautiful.]

headstone bed-head

or maybe
I really was that beautiful.
(These poets tend
to exaggerate things)
and I let them.

[Hmmm. This is nice but it feels a little too much like prose. Remember, poets are allowed to be fragmented. Perhaps:
or maybe
encouraged exaggerations
covered only half my
beauty.]
In general, the poem is good but not particularly fantastic. I like the mythical touch to it but I think you could have included more imagery considering it's about a beautiful muse.

Saturday (2): Maybe pm it to me? I promise I will review it quicker than I have the others

Sunday: There's something about the rhythm of this one that I love and the streak of irregular rhyme is nice. There's some good imagery, I really love the comparison with the dentist's surgery. I think the ending could be a little stronger and that repetition of 'me' irked me for some reason. Perhaps just take out the last me. I think you'd be left with a shorter, more dramatic end.

Monday: Love the end of the first stanza, absolutely adore the imagery! I'd like to see you expand it though and take it further to fill the rest of the poem that grows a little simple towards the end. Good theme though (a little unclear but I'm pretty certain I understood it) and I'd like to see you take 'If I lie a certain way the pain /almost stops.' further because it's an interesting idea. Rather ordinary in one sense but it could have so many different meanings and be touching on quite a few situations.

Tuesday:

[s]8[/s] eight hours ago

Hmmm. I'm not sure. There's some nice imagery but it feels a bit rough and yet, at the same time, I can't think why, I can't think of suggestions for changes. And for once, I disliked the irregular rhyme at the end, it threw me a little. I like the second stanza and the third is rather nice but in general, I'm not too fond on it.

Wednesday: Write another? You need to fill the gap!

Thursday:

my mind,

[I'd suggest ending this line with a semi colon.] I like this one. There's something sort of peaceful and lulling but at the same time haunting, almost melancholic about the tone and it fits so snugly with the words which are very pretty; lovely imagery. It's a touch fragmented but that's good, it works really well and I really don't have any suggestions. It isn't a brilliant masterpiece but it's good and I just love how it flows. *Is being totally unhelpful.*

___________________________

And with that ever so helpful critique, I'm going to finish for now but the other six will be done before the end of the week.

You're amazing Kit, thanks so much! I'll send you "Standing on a Glacier", and I'll look at making the changes you've suggested. You're brilliant. Thank you so much.

Friday:

it even has to die.

[I think this would flow better as 'it ever has to die.'] There's something really great about this poem but at the same time, it's hard to grasp. The flow is beautiful, you have an excellent use of repetition and the context is generally good. However, I think I'd like to see more of the 'permanent' theme throughout it. Even amongst these deaths, what is permanent? A gift one of them has given her? A jacket one used to wear? I'd love for the 'impermanent memories' ending to come as a bit of a surprise, for you to concentrate on what technically lasts forever even amidst the deaths.

If that makes any sense? But it's lovely and far surpasses my editing abilities, never mind my skill in writing.

Saturday: Hahaha. There's something about the ending that I love and it's a great contrast to the happy, pleasant imagery that you previously associate the rolling pin with. It's a really fun little poem but... I'd love you to make it creepy instead? You do negative so well... I'd suggest that you keep that one but start again with another, just taking the theme of buying a rolling pin at night and maybe describe how it can be used as a weapon, how like a baseball bat it can be. You could even take it the other way and end with something like 'So who wants a cookie from me?' Oooh, in first person, yeah. That could be really creepy. *Will shut up now.*

Sunday: Ah, a lovely idea but I think that it could have been written with more imagery. I love how you've incorporated part of the rhyme which adds to the theme of children but at the moment, it's a little weak. There isn't the mother's emotion or the persona's. The birds give in so easily and what with the latest superstitions of cereal giving you a boy, maybe you could bring those in? I think that would add interest, if you mixed all the superstitions togetehr and made a point of how they're all complete nonsense.

Monday: Pretty words but too short to show any meaning and too ordinary.

Tuesday: This one is more interesting. The alliteration is a nice technique and the last line pleasantly unusual. But it's still too short. There again, that's just my dislike of short poetry filtering through

Wednesday: There's something beautifully melancholic in the flow and the words of this one. At first it seems slow and halting but then that becomes an almost haunting, rhythm. I don't understand all your words but just the feel of it is lovely enough. I have no suggestion and little comment. But I liked it.