Young Writers Society

(Clo! Thanks so much!)

April 7th - seven down

There once was a fellow called Ash
who was craving for badges and cash
but the ball in his pocket
was swiped by Team Rocket
so he was left for Gary to thrash.

April 8th - keychain

just before I pass the oldest stone church in the region,
a fairy-haired girl picks up a keychain from
the busy Monday morning footprints
and lifts it higher, credulous and durable face to face

on the woolen mitten, there's no ground
and she looks at the lost one, it's a latchkey –
one blink, another –
now someone can't go home maybe they don't have gloves what would I do I would cry poor them

and she's stuck in the street in the crowd
like a jolted photograph taken by an astable hand
her feet apart and head slightly tilted,
as though trying to count without abacus –

one step, another –
and like from a wasp's sting
she marches up at the crabapple tree,
hangs the keychain in a sprig and skitters away

with her curls captured by the wind
and she looks like me.

'Keychain' was sweet, tender, subtle. A hint of magic, a note of reality, once again you have waved that pretty wand of yours and conjured up a heartbreakingly simple image in my mind. I love every line, how it's just right, so real. This is what I enjoy about reading good poetry - even the mundane is brought to life and every little thing that happens matters.

You sent me to the dictionary looking up the word 'astable.' Not really a good thing to do in a poem. I like how you melted her thought flashes into each other, but, I have to admit, I read it three times before I understood. Was this your intended effect? Oh, and just one teensy weensy thing I didn't quite understand - 'credulous and durable face to face.' Whatever it means, it sounds...awkward, ever so slightly. But it kind of fits in with the poem in this bizarre way.

Concerning April 8th:

"the busy Monday morning footprints"
Great line.

"now someone can't go home maybe they don't have gloves what would I do I would cry poor them"
This interjection is very welcome. Very cute. It sounds like how fairies are always portrayed in film and art.

"like a jolted photograph taken by an astable hand"
This definitely could have been shortened. Using the right adjective for photograph would eliminate the need to add on the word "astable," which is, in my mind, trumped by the more familiar "unstable."

The rest was pretty enjoyable and pleasing to the mind's eye (and the head's eye? That is, aesthetically). I'm looking forward to the future!

Thanks for your comments!

April 9th - taurus

he's dressed himself for years now
but still gets stuck in a cardigan
that hangs around his neck like a cone of shame,
especially on the hectic mornings when
cocoa leaves memoranda on tongues

and he watches fork-lifts till blue in the face,
then an unprecedented tickle-me
and I do as I'm told, I know just the spot
(inch and a half northeast of the belly button)
and even before the tiniest poke, he squirms,
revealing the updated row of missing milk teeth

after lunch, he chases after a girl in kimono
with a cordon in his hand, but then they laugh
and share the first strawberries of the season
like the only survivors in a flock of polliwogs

and why does a fortnight short of seven years
feel like a mere drop in the sea of squints?

April 10th - water whirl

she used to wear green lipstick,
now she's got a five-year-old and
a man who looks like a construction engineer
they say she belonged to the centre party,
but she says she's a neoliberal

and at the coffee table, she eats all the coconut
but puts the blueberries away
while I can't stand the flakes sticking in my teeth
like velcro tape in mohair

the last time we met was twelve inches ago
and made stories about an obedient reynard –
I wonder if she saved my woven wristband
or whether it's as gone as the names of her four cats

now we talk about the dative case
since I pretended to be studying german
and something about her expression when she tests my vocabulary
makes me suspect

she might not have thrown that lipstick away.

April 11th - meanings of life

to wake up to hesitant caramel sauce
behind the needy fingers of neglected birches
and to have birdsongs for breakfast
is almost as lovely as eating a home-made rhubarb pie
while its warmness sticks in one's bare fingers
for it's only fulfilling, not filling unlike the pie that is both

at the creek, we make jollyboats out of bark and
run to the bridge to see which one is faster
yours wins, and before making you guess
what I'm drawing on your back, I steal
a brush on your earlobes and the bowl of your neck

after easter, crocus start edging their way between the pebbles
like egocentric mothers during rush hour
and she watches them grow, playing
with the ring she wore on the first of april

a married couple is spending a day off
fixing their car and on the other side of the street,
a girl prepares to drop her glove
for a boy to pick up, not realizing he won't

while it might seem like there's
so little that anything has in common,
there's one thing that is everything
that is life.

Here. We. Go:

April 9th:

he's dressed himself for years now
but still gets stuck in a cardigan

I love the way all of your poems begin, and this is no different. Sweet and simple. I didn't care for 'cone of shame' - sure, make it a cone of SOMETHING - just shame seemed to break that innocent image I had.

cocoa leaves memoranda on tongues

Sounds nice but seems...bland, a little lacking in depth. I loved the:

inch and a half northeast of the belly button

- really interesting imagery, again. The chasing of the girl in the kimono is likewise pretty, but the sharing strawberries part was not to my liking - possibly because I've read of it too many times, so it seemed bland again. But there are countless different fruits you could replace that with! Oh, and just the last word, I didn't like, which stands out like a sore thumb in this: 'squints'.

April 10th: Well, no worries there - I liked it all; maybe there are a few sentences that could be tweaked and tucked in a bit ('man who looks like a construction engineer' - possibly the combination of 'construction' and 'engineer' - one of those words is unnecessary. And also: images in the third stanza were disjointed - 'twelve inches' was confusing (but a good idea, so just be more speicific ), 'obedient reynard' annoyed me because the words are harder so it cuts the flow; 'gone as the name of her four cats' - there definitely needs to be a mention of cats in there somewhere, but that simile is a bit...off. Kind of cute, though.)

I loved the start and end of this - especially:

and something about her expression when she tests my vocabulary
makes me suspect

she might not have thrown that lipstick away.

Such a tongue-in-cheek line!

April 11: well, I can always tell we're going to be on to big things when you call a poem 'meanings of life.' I like the plural . I really, really want to quote the whole poem because there were SO MANY CUTE AND AMAZING IMAGES in it - I think you know which.

But, I cannot help it: 'to wake up to hesitant caramel sauce,' 'birdsongs for breakfast,' 'lovely as eating a home-made rhubarb pie/while its warmness sticks in one's bare fingers,' 'jollyboats out of bark,' 'what I'm drawing on your back, I steal / a brush on your earlobes and the bowl of your neck,' 'a girl prepares to drop her glove / for a boy to pick up.' These would not lose their sweetness were I to read them again and again.

I was not a fan of the last stanza - you could have capped it off much more sweetly than that direct statement there - just one, last, tantalizing, heartbreakingly innocent image to leave us with would have had a more powerful effect.

Navita, you're amazing. Thank you so much. I agree with you about the end of April 11th.

April 12th - witsec

it's been years since she was given a new name,
but every other night that tuesday adheres on her face
and the bath tap stopped working for a reason she can't recall

woolen stockings have never been enough
to gag the staircase in the dark
but they can make parquet feel like a skating rink,
especially straight after rem sleep

reaching for a glass on the topmost shelf,
she doesn't remember that here, in front of the oven,
she had a smoggy miscarriage
having just brought in the last cardboard box

but it's as irrelevant as the one tuesday
though it has fused into the pool of belated sighs
and she swears she has plural selves,
one for then and one for now,
and another has faded with the speaking clock

but tonight, her reflection on the wall
has eyes that remember it all
splinters, splinters, on the floor,
we both forgot what I'm here for.

April 12th;
I think that the first stanza is a bit slow, I may start with the second as I think the imagery is much stronger and the whole thing feels more immediate.The third stanza holds equally brilliant imagery and flows nicely. I think the fourth stanza is a little awkward and I'm not really sure about how the sentences connect to each other, especially "as the one tuesday/though it had fused." I love the last line but I think the reflection and the eyes are a little weak as images. The last two lines are really great.

April 11th,
Your imagery is beautiful and I love the tone here.In the first stanza, I'd change "in one's" to "between one's", though maybe "one's" is a little formal. I may try "your" or "our". I'd also put a comma after "filling".

I think the imagery in the second stanza is a bit weaker and I'm not sure about the phrasing of "a brush on your earlobes and the bowl of your neck ".

I love the third and fourth stanzas but I last one was a bit watery and too much telling and not enough showing.

April 10th;
This is fabulous. I love the imagery, it flows perfectly and is beautifully expressed. I can't fault it.

You know what rocks?

Your NaPo thread.

I really love 99.9% of your NaPoems.

April 12th:

woolen stockings have never been enough
to gag the staircase in the dark

Love it!

Agreed with Jasmine: I don't really know how to read the first few lines of the fourth stanza.

Overall, it holds such quiet beauty that I daresay no more.

April 7th:
I saw it was uncommented, so I thought I would lend you my thoughts.

It's a brilliant portrayal of the struggles of man for the material. Obviously the ball in his pocket is a cunning euphemism for his pride lost. Unable to conquer those who dehumanized him, he perpetuates the cycle of evil on Gary (stupid, smug punk Gary!).

I was unsure what I'd say about this latest poem of yours - I mean, what more can you say, than the perfect poem is, well, perfect? - so I thought I'd better be a little more specific than that.

First off, your poems (all of them) look lovely on the page. Just the size I love to read anytime, anywhere. I like cute-short ones, too, and terrifically long ones; but, unfortunately, the shorter ones I feel I gobble up too quickly, and the longers ones just do not seem to end - but yours are the perfect size - medium, a healthy in-between. They look appealing on the page - like I'll be able to glean some meaning out of them, but that they'll also have a myster-factor in terms of leaving enough unsaid.

Anyway, this April 12 poem I liked overall. Here are my favourite lines:

bath tap stopped working for a reason she can't recall

On second thought, I have no idea why I am so attached to this line - it's just...sweet, heartbreaking - a simple image that jumps out at me.

woolen stockings have never been enough
to gag the staircase in the dark
but they can make parquet feel like a skating rink

Okay, intellectually I may not have understood what you meant by 'gag the staircase in the dark,' but instinctually, I feel I know what it means - and it is a beautiful image as well. The skating rink simile was also nice, but I think you might be able to give it a little trim so that's it's neater

reaching for a glass on the topmost shelf,
she doesn't remember that here, in front of the oven,
she had a smoggy miscarriage
having just brought in the last cardboard box

So. Why don't I just quote your whole poem while I'm at it? This is an image that immediately leaps out to us - because it's so painfully honest and raw; but somehow, not too raw, either - you've still retained an element of subtlety to keep it accessible and not overwhelming. Just those three words: 'a smoggy miscarriage' sent shivers down my back. Well done

she swears she has plural selves

I love this line too - the concept of 'multiple selves/identities' is not new, but somehow the cute way you phrased it makes it seem like you are letting us in on a secret about her, in a hushed tone, glancing around yourself. Even when describing characters in third person, you maintain a quiet degree of connection with the reader, hooking us in by your clear and simple voice throughout.

I did not understand the last stanza of that, actually - I mean, yes, I get that she is a woman somewhat confused - amnesiac, almost - but just the word 'splinters' was troublesome. Do you mean that these are the splinters of past mistakes and deeds which she can no longer remember.

And since I'm an 'overall-purpose' person, I want to know the POINT of the whole poem. I grasp some significance in the 'Tuesday night,' and the 'one Tuesday' in your poem - what is different about Tuesday night for her? I feel like these lines are crucial to unlocking the meaning of the poem:

but every other night that tuesday adheres on her face

..............................................................

but it's as irrelevant as the one tuesday

First off, I gather she is a middle-aged woman 'lost' in her own mind. But why, why, WHY this Tuesday? Why does she remember Tuesday only (unless I've misread that)? Why is Tuesday important? What happens on this day?

Demeter - you've done a wonderful job of setting the scene and the mystery, and, for the sake of the poem, I would love for it to remain a mystery, since the poem has such an interesting tone without you spelling it out for us - but for the sake of my curiosity, please answer this: What happens on Tuesday?


Anyway, an excellent read (thank you) and I look forward to the rest!

Jasmine >> Thanks for your thoughts!

Clo >> :0 wow. Thank you thank you!

Sarg >> Thanks! And hah, the rest of your comment made my night. I'm glad someone found the deeper symbolics in the poem.

Navita >> Thaaaank youuuu, your comments are golden.

I can't thank you enough, really. To be honest, I didn't expect anyone to even read these!


April 13th -

the sign says no talking please,
but the elderly ladies just lower their voices
leaving an irksome murmur floating around
and behind the glass, the room is
flooding with giggles over smoothies
like pre-teen streams melting too early
(one of the laughs is familiar
but granted, I'm just behind the column)

these shoelaces are like shackles around my ankle
(no one's had that ringtone after nineteen nineties,
and you look idiotic in those clothes)

the majority of the magazines is swedish,
but no one here looks like a nyström
and the man biting his nails into a flaky carpet at his feet
stands, letting the leather valley under him
spring up like suspension in a new mattress

and when the time is up, I learn that I have
misinterpreted the familiar laugh, whoever made it
I have never seen them before

and outside, people are walking with no
jackets on.

April 14th - u-turn

the flimsy plank that's her only front step
on the brink of a cliff will self-destruct
if she stands on it one inhale too many
so she lets the air out and descends,
off the welcome rug without realising it

the wheel is cold under her ungloved palms
but she steps on it, knowing that
otherwise she would stay and wake up
to the oilcloth on the kitchen table

she lets herself enjoy the windows facing west,
even though her next breakfast might be further
than the wedge of cranes returning home
but she can still see in front of her
like a painted toenail peeking from a fraying stocking

after counting the thirty-first intersection,
she pulls over to the edge of a forgotten field
and lets it absorb out-of-date reggae while
she compares the amount of sand around her

heads for left, tails for right
but it stays on her palm, untossed

she might be in time for the sunday night roast beef.