Young Writers Society

He was drowning in a cold sweat,
the costume of his suit splotched wet brown like his entire body had been crying.
I held his hands,
large like a _____'s hands should be,
but his grip was fragile, shaky.
Through a fog of salt walter and funerary flower fumes,
we took a seat in a slick, pale pew.
I held him together, an egg deconstructed,
reconstructed vainly and spilling through the cracks
It had been enough for the time.

Weeks.
He left to be taken care of,
to start afresh in a pristine, protected little universe
where he could get his shit together with professional assistance.
It made a difference that I never had,
but my pride only hurt a little.
And we talked Bill Withers, and I talked Horns,
and he talked medications and old friends and wedding rings
worn on necklaces.
So it was fine for a while.

The days blur together, so I can't quiet remember beyond this week.

It was morning, then,
so his body must have been cold by the time I heard,
a forgotten cup of tea on my bedside, half-full,
bitter.
And what's worse, I knew it. I knew before she told me.
I could feel the absence, the pressure in my chest,
the panic,
and all I could think was
Hide.
You can't see it, so it can't see you.
But I had to see it, it had to see me.

When I got home, I didn't cry, not right away.
I listened to the Dead Weather album you bought me, ______,
for my birthday.
It's all I felt like hearing.
They keep telling me that it'll take time to heal.
Hell, I feel that I've been tending wounds for years now.
Maybe I don't want to heal
or at least expend the effort.
Like bleeding gums, a blue bruise to prod,
maybe I want the tenderness to stay,
so my body can feel human while what's inside me
crystallizes, gleams with copper plating.


_____, I'm fucking tired of funerals.

This was fantastic. The plot was a bit hazy, but I see great potential in you. =)

skipperwhipped wrote:

Spoiler! :

originally a blog until someone said I should post it as a poem. well, here we are. the lamentation of my sorrows. joy.

You should thank that someone.

He was drowning in a cold sweat,
the costume of his suit splotched wet brown like his entire body had been crying.

You aren't bad. Thing is, your first line is almost perfect except you give me the expected expected. Y'see when we ain't going bout tha things gonna sound gonna sing gonna breath, believe and see in our ears...we gotta give images that jarr, question, embellish, make sense and then don't make sense, and layer, etc. So when someone is drowning immediately, yes, the second line is a great way to back it up, BUT, the first? No.

It's the cold sweat that needs to set the prerogative to match your emotional tone here. Your words "cold sweat" carry too much connotation on their own with doing anything for drowning and really making sense for your second line. Is he drowning in his body that is crying? What is his suit to this drowning? What is the state of drowning in the lack of drowning in an aqueous setting? Look at all of your words that do something "drowning...cold sweat...costume...suit splotched wet brown....body--crying" you could make an entire world in those words and ellipses. Think about it, do not waste words, give each one invested power.

I held his hands,
large like a _____'s hands should be,
but his grip was fragile, shaky.

You can argue with me on this. I almost expect it, but I don't see why the "blank line word here technique" is doing you anything. It doesn't seem to match up across all three examples. Perhaps the innate nature you want just isn't jumping out, I don't know. I clearly can't wrest that out of the poem.

Now, these lines don't mean anything without that word. You've centered the lines so much that it MUST be the focal, and that focal is left on a hung jury since it has refused to show up. So my point: technique is not to be abused unless it perfectly displays a point and meaning.

Through a fog of salt walter and funerary flower fumes,
we took a seat in a slick, pale pew.
I held him together, an egg deconstructed,
reconstructed vainly and spilling through the cracks
It had been enough for the time.

Imagery too unbound there in the beginning, granted it read fine, but where does this salt water come from? It's neat to follow that with the flower fumes, but what's the direction of voice? That all said, I enjoy the last three lines. Careful about the transition to the last line, a sudden change in perspective needs to have a purpose.

Imaginative though skip, let's keep going.

Weeks.
He left to be taken care of,
to start afresh in a pristine, protected little universe
where he could get his shit together with professional assistance.
It made a difference that I never had,
but my pride only hurt a little.
And we talked Bill Withers, and I talked Horns,
and he talked medications and old friends and wedding rings
worn on necklaces.
So it was fine for a while.

Where's the transition to "weeks"? Time is not a word to branch a transition on, it's a concept an idea, but not a specific transition with invested meaning we can follow from one thing to another. And in this stanza you lose yourself. Get too pretty, words get too big, tone unwinds, too informal, it's like another poem in a way. Reevaluate your angle here; I won't advise cutting any of this poem. Rework sections though, reinvigorate them. We can talk about this section independently if you want.

The days blur together, so I can't quiet remember beyond this week.

But that is obvious, you're becoming too straightforward, literal; where's your imagery and symbols?

It was morning, then,
so his body must have been cold by the time I heard,
a forgotten cup of tea on my bedside, half-full,
bitter.
And what's worse, I knew it. I knew before she told me.
I could feel the absence, the pressure in my chest,
the panic,
and all I could think was
Hide.
You can't see it, so it can't see you.
But I had to see it, it had to see me.

Again you change the voice, the tone, the speaker. I think you should cut this up into individual sections of a poem, say with "1, 2, 3..." numbered sections or roman numerals. Your technique in each section changes, your diction changes, but you keep the same idea. I appreciate your understanding for poetic shape, and now you need to organize your images and cohesion and narrative speaker so it doesn't jump and jump and jump.

When I got home, I didn't cry, not right away.
I listened to the Dead Weather album you bought me, ______,
for my birthday.
It's all I felt like hearing.
They keep telling me that it'll take time to heal.
Hell, I feel that I've been tending wounds for years now.
Maybe I don't want to heal
or at least expend the effort.
Like bleeding gums, a blue bruise to prod,
maybe I want the tenderness to stay,
so my body can feel human while what's inside me
crystallizes, gleams with copper plating.


_____, I'm fucking tired of funerals.

I still wonder at the purpose of the lines with no words, the unspoken symbol of this poem. You can keep them, but then make the poem invested past listing the sequence of time, make it focused on another craft of the poem. Also, your title of the poem; is this the right title? Your beginning of the poem works, but you lose the voice in the midst of the middle; control is what's lacking, but, it comes with time. Work on this, it has something it wants to say. Something that flirts with real power.

OH MY GODS.
Amazing. Simply amazing. I was shivering all the time. I'm a huge fan of everything that doesn't say it all, that has unfinished thoughts and that should be read more among the lines. And your poem is just perfect.

It was morning, then,
so his body must have been cold by the time I heard,

I so can relate with that. Somehow, when you're in deep pain, you start thinking about trivial things you don't really need to know. So true and so real. Shivered here. Generally the whole following stanza was simply amazing. Bitter tea--perfect metaphore of bitterness of pain. And the panic, and the desire to hide, and then the realization that you have to face it. Perfect. I'm running out of superlatives

Hell, I feel that I've been tending wounds for years now.
Maybe I don't want to heal

Such a wonderful imagination. Again, I can feel everything you write about and it makes me shiver. I'm truly touched.

_____, I'm fucking tired of funerals.

I love how you missed out the man's name. And how you spoke directly to him at points. Really gives the reader the impression he's still in your mind and that he was so close to your heart. Amazing. And the whole line? Breathtaking. Somehow, in the shade of the rest of the poem, it doesn't seem vulgar, but more like... desperate.

I didn't quite understand the first two stanzas, but this is probably just because I don't know the story behind the poem. I get it that it's a personal kind of work, so it's more like a record of your memories and emotions than the story of what really happened, and I really respect it.

I also think that maybe someday you'll decide to go back to this poem and edit it. If you do, I advice you to try to make it rhymed. It would surely have more impact with rhymes. And you should also divide the longer lines, or at least make them appear in some kind of pattern, maybe as the middle lines of every stanza or something. I'm sure you'll figure it out. When you're ready.

I'm chilled to the bone. Thank you for such a great work.

--Eve

MeanMrMustard wrote:

skipperwhipped wrote:

Spoiler! :

originally a blog until someone said I should post it as a poem. well, here we are. the lamentation of my sorrows. joy.

You should thank that someone.

I'm with MMM.

This was a delight to read. May I ask what your blog is? Is it here with YWS or is hosted elsewhere? Anyway I don't have much to add that hasn't already been said. The last line almost made me chuckle, almost.

Nice work.

JP.