Young Writers Society

I love how this begins, with the phrase in italics (I'm not sure whether to consider the quote as the start of the actual poem or as the preface to it). To me, it gives off the sense that the line itself is whining.

I wish that the "I wish" lines in the first actual stanza had led into each other a bit more. Yes, they all say something related to each other, but... it's like each phrase is accented, where I think it would be better as legato'd.

I wish I had learned deconstruction so I could ride the long, long,
longer than days away spent missing you, legs that stretch out

I have only a picture to interrogate
the fossils of tenderness--this is an inheritance of knives,

I enjoyed this. A few suggestions:

long, long, longer than days

your stilted punctuation,
my stifled signs and symbols all jumbled together
in an empty white space, those breaths between, a quiet
that creates how we mean

pages of desire

I wish I knew
how to kindle more than a fire
that burns an oak to ash.

And nothing is left to remember

money

Brad, I didn't have a problem connecting anything together here, and I thought it was probably the most powerful and moving poem you've written. The chaos and confusion others had probably means they didn't look close enough. I love how each image can be seen as both its own poignant vignette and a contribution to the overall theme. I'll try to give comments as I go through it.

"Last night you were not here
and I could not sleep."
-Cleopatra (1963)


What a whiner.

I wish I had traveled enough to be an atlas
of desired places and recipes.

I wish I had learned
Madame Zulu's techniques for splitting a heart
in two and pinning nine needles through each chamber.

I wish I had learned deconstruction so I could ride the long, long,
longer than days away spent missing you, legs that stretch out
and parenthetically pull me in close.

I wish grammar
had taught me the syntax of love, the cadence of breaking

and putting things back together--your stilted punctuation,
my stifled signs and symbols all jumbled together
in an empty white space, those breaths between, a quiet
that creates how we mean.

I wish my fingers were a compass
to navigate the pages of our desire;

I wish our love were not like bruises
that bloom every time we touch. I wish I knew
how to kindle more than a fire
that burns an oak to ash.

And nothing is left to remember--no hearts spliced in two
but my own, no road map from here to happiness--just the smoke
that rises slowly, turns and flees.

No notes on how to speak
and break the spelll; no recipe for luck in love and money.

There are the roads
and the rhythms of our unintelligible song; there is the scent of regret
that purrs along the folds of these old clothes and the sting
of things remembered.

I have only a picture to interrogate
the fossils of tenderness--

this is an inheritance of knives,

so many kinds of hunger, and over it all a patina
of silenced rage that puts me to sleep when you are not here.

Um...It kind of confuses me to some extent. It sounds kind of like a love poem, but at the same time a heart break poem. Perhaps it is a love poem gone ary?

There was only one thing I really didn't like -- how repeatative it seemed. "I wish I had learned" stood out so much in the first stanza that it started to get on my nerves. As it moved on, it got better though.

I really liked the way your first stanze kind of melted into the second. I don't know why, but that intrigued me in a way.

Good job and Happy Writing!

~Bella*Maria~

Elitehusky,


Thanks for comments and sorry for the chaos. =]


Cheers,


Suzanne,


An astute observation re: life in my recent poetry--namely, there is none. [I'm well on my way to quitting the habit altogether, as it were]. Sorry this didn't touch or inspire you at all; I suppose my only response could be that all I've ever done is write for me and, simply by using the tools of the trade, cloaked it. Now that you've all grown up and gotten so smart, you realize the Master never knew what he was talking about--truth is a miscommunication, after all.


Grazie,


author13--


Thank you for the surely undeserved praise.


Take care,

Brad

I like it, and I found myself singing-yes singing-it in my head. I'm not even going to try to explain why I think its good because I'll just end up getting it wrong and making a fool of myself.

Main purpose for comment:

To say this:

If I were good at poetry this is the kind of poem I would write, same with songs, I wish I could write a song this intense.

and break the spelll;