Young Writers Society

Here's the revised version. Again, crits are appreciated.

“Aubade”
By K.J. Hascall
8/19/06
Revised 8/26/06

I slip out to the back stair at a late night, late summer party,
alcohol charging through me like a hysterical moment,
giving my tongue courage and my feet clumsiness.
The lightning bugs drawn by the sweating night circle the building,
and their flashing can almost be mistaken for cigarettes glowing lonesome.

The white stairs zigzag up to other apartments older than the current occupants,
and the wood floors creak in poignant wordless groans.
This wooden speech amplifies movement, but the tenants only notice
when the countertops aren’t covered in bottles of rum and tequila,
spilled soda, and ice cubes melting in unnoticed puddles.

On the back porch I pull the pack of cigarettes from my purse and ask for a light.
It’s a bad habit I picked up this summer, but the surprised faces are confined
to social gatherings like this, for the unassuming death sticks are at all other times confined to my sock drawer.

I loosen up around these people, gorgeous but dropped from society,
and so this old apartment becomes the gathering place of brainy fags
who drink and smoke themselves into artistic oblivion.

This is America’s Lost Generation,
revised, revisited, and reborn.
This spawn of Gertrude Stein, version 2.0!
Instead of salons in the back alleys of that French city
we meet in shit-hole apartments in a shit-hole town where the scent of people tired
of the sideways glances and judgmental stares
leaks out of the walls in a perverse kind of perspiration.

Tongues slip around words.
Tongues slip around the filters of cigarettes.
Tongues slip around the tongues of other people.

The pale gray smoke and ash climb and fall on the back step,
and we are buoyed by the superiority of our mutual oddities.
We lean against the walls and railings; content to enjoy the polite talk,
sometimes we are the only people who are polite to us.
We have no Picasso in our number to paint our pictures in such a way
that the portraits will become the way the future remembers us.
The only way we may break from these cubed rooms is to become so
fucking great at what we do our judges cannot ignore us.

I drown my loss in cheap booze and shitty cigarettes because I will
never feel acceptance from anyone but these few people
who have learned to change the way they see, not the way they look.

Jazz piano slips over the nozzles of liquor bottles and the cold water
on the countertops grows stagnant as people drift out into the night.
I ache bitterly for these friends the moment I leave them, but learn to avoid slips
of the tongue in casual conversation outside that apartment.
When I go home tonight, I’ll put the cigarettes and my soul in the sock drawer,
where the world cannot find them, saving both only for back stairs.

I edited the rating, so it shows it now. There was some problems a while back, let Nate know if there is any further problems with it.

Well, I'm horrible at poetry, first off. So, since you were able to write something understandable (unlike me), I give you points right there.

This was VERY well written, and it was nice to read. I'm pretty tired of all the poems that can talk about nothing but this "one guy" So, this poem was quite a relief to me. Very real.

Great job!

Antigone - thanks for the crit! It was very helpful. I've taken your advice on the bit about ice cubes, breaking up the sock drawer line, and the "very acutely." I appreciate the tailoring. I'm glad you enjoyed my poem. I worked a very long time on it.

Plainfin - no offense, but do you mind keeping comments like that in the Lounge and not in this thread? Thanks.

I really like this. There's some really great descriptions, and you did a good job of describing your emotions without getting whiny or angsty.

I really like this. There's some really great descriptions, and you did a good job of describing your emotions without getting whiny or angsty.

giving my tongue courage and my feet clumsiness.
Nice line.

unassuming death sticks
Very cool description.

And so this old apartment becomes the gathering place of brainy fags
(in both senses of the word), who drink and smoke themselves
into artistic oblivion.
I love this bit.

THIS IS AMERICA’S LOST GENERATION,
REVISED, REVISITED, AND REBORN.
THE SPAWN OF GERTRUDE STEIN, VERSION 2.0!
lol. Very nice. The all caps is effective.

Tongues slip around words.
Tongues slip around the filters of cigarettes.
Tongues slip around the tongues of other people.
I really like the way this stanza breaks up the other parts of the poem that have less rhythm and structure. Not that those are bad, but this is just a nice interruption.

because they have learned to change the way they see, not the way they look.
I love this line.

I hide myself away from the world just like I hide away my cigarettes,
saving both only for back stairs at parties
where alcohol, smoke, and conversation flow from the lips of my lost generation.
Great ending.

I love the way this is almost stream-of-conscious, but not quite. Overall the only criticism I have is that in some places it gets a little wordy. I think some selective editing might make the poem flow better and be a little more... punchy. All the details you include are what make this great, but in some places maybe you don't need everything there is. For example:

The white stairs zigzag up to other apartments older than the current occupants,
You could probably just say 'occupants'.

spilled soda, and ice cubes melting in unnoticed puddles; cubes which are reborn
into a different state only to reflect fluorescent lights and fervent conversation.
'... ice cubes melting unnoticed into puddles; reborn into a different state
to reflect fluorescent lights and fervent conversation.'
Or something like that.

to social gatherings like this, for the unassuming death sticks are at all other times confined to my sock drawer.
I love this, but maybe break it into two lines.

I feel very acutely my ostracism from the fold of most of my friends,
Maybe just 'acutely', as it kind of implies 'very'.

You get the idea.

All in all though, I really like it. A very enjoyable read. Nice work.

The title is not at all bad; it’s just that I wanted to know the meaning of it.

I’ll surely read those two poems.

ANI wrote:A question: Why is it “Observation from the Back Stair”.

tenants-tenant’s.

"We lean against the walls and railings, content to enjoy the polite talk,
for sometimes we are the only people who are polite to each other."
Punctuation after railings should be a semicolon(; )

First of all well written, and well explained. This was no wonder written with all ur inner feelings.

A question: Why is it “Observation from the Back Stair”.

Cicero wrote:Yes, this poem is long, but all critiques are greatly appreciated!!!

The white stairs zigzag up to other apartments older than the current occupants,
and the wood floors creak in poignant but wordless groans.
This wooden speech amplifies movement, but the tenants only notice
when the countertops aren’t covered in bottles of rum and tequila,
spilled soda, and ice cubes melting in unnoticed puddles; cubes which are reborn
into a different state only to reflect fluorescent lights and fervent conversation.

The pale gray smoke and ash climb and fall on the back step,
while these people eye each other in comfortable conversation,
buoyed by the superiority of their mutual oddities.
We lean against the walls and railings, content to enjoy the polite talk,
for sometimes we are the only people who are polite to each other.

Jazz piano slips over the nozzles of liquor bottles and the cold water
on the countertops grows stagnant as people drift out into the night.
I ache bitterly for these friends the moment I leave them, but learn to avoid
slips of the tongue in casual conversation outside that apartment.
My face is still behind the mask of my dual life,
and acceptance is a bitter brand upon my heart.
I hide myself away from the world just like I hide away my cigarettes,
saving both only for back stairs at parties
where alcohol, smoke, and conversation flow from the lips of my lost generation