In the light of our preceding conversations—
those husky, coffee-laden strings of observations
on the nature of the human condition—
we naturally collapsed into bed together,
your face tinted and slanted like a Picasso
and mine tendered by the green shadows of night,
brooding into some sort of black solution
like an Edward Hopper: your favorite.
We woke up separated by a mountain range
of quilts. Outside, Hispanic men in orange overalls
stood on cranes with electric saws
that split through fallen trees. One of them
was smoking, and I know you despise that smell
(saw it by your face, tomato-squeezed, left to dry)
even though the only thing that wasn’t filtered
by the window screens was a blanket of sawdust,
that fusty pine scent rising up in clouds from our laps.
We tried to walk outside barefooted
but the sap gummed to our heels.
In the shower, I asked you if, when they die,
humans emit such beautiful smells.
Suddenly the ceiling fell and killed you.
Your body looked like Guernica,
bruised in black and white, agonized, tumultuous.
I only smelled the cigarette smoke
that streamed from the wrecked roof, the man
gaping over us like a bird over its prey,
the leaves of the branch he just sawed off
slapping against the bathroom tiles.
I looked like Nighthawks: face immersed
in the black light, concealed by it; just another traveler,
just another hungry soul on the brink of light.
Points:
Time spent:
Canary word: Present
Possible AI signals:
Original Text:
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I agree, the second stanza is all actual descriptions that don't lend to the power of the theme. What do the immortal paintings care if there were Hispanic men in orange overalls cutting down some trees?
Also, the description of your own face takes up an entire three verses in the first stanza. It unbalances the first stanza a little, since there was so much action and thought going on in the first 5 verses. Kinda selfish, eh?
The death of the lover feels so slapstick and non sequitur.
The references to the art are so straightforward and brief that it feels like you threw them in there because you had just studied them in school or come back from a museum. I feel it could be tied in more solidly and intimately, especially with the lack of mention of art in stanza two (unless it flew over my head, then shame on me).
Overall, though, I enjoyed the read very much. "Coffee-laden strings of observations" is good. "Collapsed into bed together" is a very fitting way to say it--it sounds world-weary and passionate, like the rest of the poem, without being overt about it. I dig it.
Edit: What the Hispanic men in orange overalls did make me think of, though, was Goya's "The Third of May." There's a prominent orange theme to it. And there are executioners, which plays a roll later in your poem. And Spanish people, but not likely the same as your Hispanic workers, and they're on the receiving end of the execution, so that's completely different, really. Anyway, that's just a tangent.
Hey gadi,
Great poem. I enjoyed the references to two pieces of art I actually know. Not sure I agree they need to be italicised, though, that's a bit like LOOK HERE GUYS I MADE A SMART CULTURAL REFERENCE. It could be more subtle. The first stanza (and the style in general) reminded me of T.S. Eliot, not that I want that to get to your head or anything.
Some points:
"the nature of the human condition" is probably your weakest line. Boring, familiar. Spruce it up.
S2 is the weakest overall, it has less vivid images and less vivid conclusions. It's all a bit concrete, tangible, and there doesn't seem to be anything to it over than description. I think this is the best place you could make improvements that match the rest of this work.
Good luck, and thanks for the read -- it was top stuff. Not too bad for your age.
Ooo yay for good poems. My turn to eat this up! *giggles* and I know who the above reviewer is!
I love the way this poem comes together. At first I didn't understand the purpose of the second stanza but then it falls together perfectly - pun completely intended. I love the darkness of this, the way you describe her body after the fall:
I also lovelovelove how sudden and confusing the first line is - just like it would be in that situation. It's so perfect.
I think I'm not entirely the right person to be reviewing this though because I don't recognize everything you're referencing and I feel that's real important to this poem - otherwise, why would you have done so? I didn't enjoy it, though I only read it once, but I'm certain that what Rosaline says it right. I don't see those lines as wrong - but if she does. lol. I trust her.
The only thing I can really pick on is this:
"Barefooted" sounds so clunky. I walk around barefoot. Just an opinion, though.
It's gadigadigadigadigadi! (A cookie if you guess who this is.)
That was good, for your age.
...just kidding. If not a bit strange for your age. I think that's the best part about you--you can already speak of artsy lovers beneath the covers. It's perfect, and you'd never guess the birthday of the man behind it all.
It could just be the fact that I lean so heavily towards fiction, but the way this is written is hilarious. It's probably not supposed to be hilarious. The problem is, if you're going for absurdity, you built it the wrong way--this line:
ruins you. It sets up the stanza as being normal action--impossible consequence that doesn't matter. However, the ceiling falling in on your lover's head does matter. It kills you. It makes you sad. Not only is it lol-worthy at this stage of draft, it makes the stanza (and the rest of the poem) bottom heavy.
You could kill her in an accident, but it has to be a different accident.
That's all I ask.