I was born in 1922
in a good neighborhood
shadowed by a blast furnace,
puffing smoke into the air
and firing slag onto the highway.
A young couple moved into my halls,
and raised two children, young girls.
They claimed the back room
and made paper dolls
and helped their mother milk the goats they kept in the yard
and collected eggs from Plymouth hens.
Their father lost his job, and they left.
The next years were dark,
void,
as if the sun had gone black.
A man walked a skeletal cow down the alley,
lettin’ it eat anything, even bitterweed.
Vulcan rose above,
naked except for his work,
and deer were given a park to roam,
as people huddled in shacks along the rails.
The others around me became filled again,
and a new family called my rooms its home.
They stayed for three generations,
with Victory Gardens and children collecting scrap.
White Star was let loose in trenches
and blue stars were hung in windows.
The youngest boy of that family
took after The Beatles, and died in the streets;
the oldest married a black woman.
The mother, father, and sister came to dinner every
good American holiday, and never acknowledged their sons or brothers
former existence.
In the ‘70s, Sloss closed.
Doom thicker than black smoke
fell across Magic City.
My neighbors grew covered in kudzu as the birds died.
Tornados ripped others apart,
trees fell in stiff winds,
some neighbors fell into disrepair,
my old friend exploded with lovers trying to make meth.
I carried one family, a broken family, and one more woman.
A woman trying to make ends meet,
a teacher who told me about how the world
was better and worse
depending where you went,
and how she counted her blessings,
even if she had to be taught how to survive a shooting.
Then she left, finally tired of never winning,
and a man came to me for shelter and left his fire going.
So now I sit, cooked inside out like a man put upon a Judas Chair,
and watch as the world crumbles and burns,
ignored by the people who drop bread off at the homeless shelter
just down the road, as if there were enough bread in the world
to fix everything that has ever happened in my halls,
in my neighbor’s halls.
Hey Little Author here,
I absolutely love this piece. The first stanza just puts it all off in a bang. I can see that you put a whole lot of thinking into the piece but the wording and just how careful all the lines are. I would have NEVER been able to write something like this. I have tried, but this is so much better than what I came up with (I think Yours was better because I wrote mine during math).
Keep writing!
This is a really interesting take on a house's perspective. I didn't really understand how this was working at first, but in the 5th stanza, I began to finally understand that it was the house talking. That's a bit long to go without knowing who the speaker is, but I'm not sure I would change anything in the poem to better show who it is. The thing I might suggest is putting the house number in the address as the poem title. This might give us more of a hint about who the speaker is and in reflection, it would make people a lot more curious.
I'm not sure who Vulcan is, and I'm not about to look it up in terms of earth. I just keep thinking of Star Trek and I doubt that's the image you want to call to mind. A good way to make poems better is to go through and make sure that everything is as tight as it can be for what you want to say. I love the image at the end of a house, burned out just sitting there while people give to a homeless shelter. I think you might want to redo a poem similar to this and start with the fire, then have the house reflecting and missing, longing to be one of these other times. That could bring more emotion to the poem, but overall the history of this poem is impressive.
I really love this. The first stanza just sets up the whole narrative so well and the idea to personify the house is what makes me love this, I think. It's like an old man describing the course of his life - we watch right from the beginning;
"I was born in 1922
in a good neighborhood
shadowed by a blast furnace,
puffing smoke into the air
and firing slag onto the highway."
The narrative is amazing. The way all the different personalities have been woven into the house's history is beautiful. This is a great poem, hope to see more of your work!
Too long.
Lacks the imagery and emotion I expected.
Weird choices of personification verbs.
Nice story and flow.
^ Just my quick opinion. Not a review xD
Hello Cspr her is a jordin with a little review for you I really hope it helps you.
OK the way you wrote this it is like the story of a house almost but houses don't get born and they don't get taught anything example.
See it does not really make to much sense to me and another thing this here well its not really a poem its more like some kind of short story but it is at least a little like a poem.
Really nice work otherwise I liked it kind of interesting and your grammar spelling and punctuation.
Keep writing and good luck I hope my review helped you.
Good work really good work.
I hope you had a rally good Easter.
~Jon~
This Is A Very Thought Out Poem, You Used Very Good Descriptive Language. Continue Writing, I Know The Next One Will Be Just As Good