In Finitum

Hey Gal. Bear with me here.

flagships upon a dressing gown, fragments
of linen upon a girl around a dressing gown.

a line of combat boots and salute(s) to the
crease of a wedding veil wrapped like a tiny
hand on a cold flesh mildew, sparkling like ashes
thrown by pitchers into the wind so the wind
may have some too.

Jawohl Jawohl
on a dressing gown on a pile of useless clothing
racing to a duel mechanism, huffing and puffing
bent out of shape and too late
for there are already old men and newborns dancing
together in the twilight, arms locked together by
a waltz and melted by the heat of the North Star,

tore her fingers on the fence electrified by torn fingers.

The sunny side stands,
beating a chest while seamen knit into the sweater

feel a little better

while alone the breezy curtain past,
sailors high on a dynamited galaxy within nine folds,
folding again and unfolding jellyfish sputters, raises itself
to a thunderous half applause.

Hey Gal, Jon here!

and sank the U-boat upon a prickled

wood and Jawohl Jawohl across a

line drawn in the ocean chalked up by sailors,

a line of combat boots and salute(s) to the

crease of a wedding veil wrapped like a tiny

hand on a cold flesh mildew, sparkling like ashes

thrown by pitchers into the wind so the wind

may have some too.

and fluttering ear skin like a torn clothing from a girl

who could not catch it but tore her fingers on the fence -

electric, ripples of laughter up her charred veins toward a brain

stigmata rushing from the Son 's sunny touch -

tore her fingers on the fence electrified by torn fingers.

A whipped cavalry of roaring specters (drunk on giddiness

and a lust to break the Milky Way like a walnut)

cracks a forgotten earth,

gallops into courtyard, burned shells

smelling with burnt hair and ashen lips

smacking of love and dirt

Galerius --

I've read some of you poetry before. You're very talented when it comes to manipulating words into these sprawling images and concepts. You're very talented at creating certain emotions and snapshots, certain truffles of inspiration, cracks of light down dark hallways. But what I see you lacking is what I lack in my poetry as well: relatability. Sense. Meaning. I think you and I have a lot in common. Many times people will look at our poetry and ask, but what does this mean? This is frustrating, because poetry is a kind of shapeshifter, a universal material. We, as poets, give the basic framework for a concept (writing it with a specific meaning in mind for ourselves), a shell which we fill with images, feelings, thoughts, but it is up to the reader to define whatever meaning they will from it. Reading poetry is not meant to be a passive experience. It is something you return to. It is something you read again, and again. You taste each passage. You gain a picture of the whole by analyzing its parts. If I am incorrect in the assumption that you agree with me, I'd love it if you'd PM me so we could discuss this a little.

With that said, I think your poetry is a little too aloof for public understanding. It's very stream-of-consciousness. It's abstract and bizarre. It takes on many different faces and angles, dancing around a vague topic (in this case, world war two, I imagine). It definately conjures some powerful images, but these images are severely disjointed and scrambled. Obviously, there are references to christianity here. And Jawhol means "aye, aye sir" or simply "yes". I look at these things all thrown together, and I see a lot of beautiful clutter. It's rich, decadent, fatty. For the longest time, I've been trying to pull away from writing such poetry, so my ideas and images can be more concentrated, and less scattered.

I like this because it is different. I also like the first stanza. You broke into this piece strong. There were bits and pieces of this poem which were reminiscent of Hemingway's writing style in A Farewell To Arms.

I don't like this because it is messy. It's bloated. You've got all these wonderful images floating around. Now you just have to work on harnessing one or two or three, pinning them down solidly and working around those.

Please PM me.

-Kylan

Galeeerius!

stampedes through the tenement - rickety
huts - and ignores the shouts from the guards,

and sank the U-boat upon a prickled
wood and Jawohl Jawohl across a
line drawn in the ocean chalked up by sailors,
flagships upon a dressing gown, fragments
of linen upon a girl around a dressing gown.

a line of combat boots and salute(s) to the
crease of a wedding veil wrapped like a tiny
hand on a cold flesh mildew, sparkling like ashes
thrown by pitchers into the wind so the wind
may have some too.

Jawohl Jawohl
on a dressing gown on a pile of useless clothing
racing to a duel mechanism, huffing and puffing
bent out of shape and too late
for there are already old men and newborns dancing
together in the twilight, arms locked together by
a waltz and melted by the heat of the North Star,

The sunny side stands,
beating a chest while seamen knit into the sweater

feel a little better

and fluttering ear skin like a torn clothing from a girl
who could not catch it but tore her fingers on the fence -
electric, ripples of laughter up her charred veins toward a brain
stigmata rushing from the Son 's sunny touch -
tore her fingers on the fence electrified by torn fingers.

A whipped cavalry of roaring specters (drunk on giddiness
and a lust to break the Milky Way like a walnut)
cracks a forgotten earth,
stampedes through the tenement - rickety
huts - and ignores the shouts from the guards,

Jawohl Jawohl!

gallops into courtyard, burned shells
smelling with burnt hair and ashen lips
smacking of love and dirt (they'll plant a tree or drift
on some toast from a camp fireplace anyway)

while alone the breezy curtain past,
sailors high on a dynamited galaxy within nine folds,
folding again and unfolding jellyfish sputters, raises itself
to a thunderous half applause.

and the Son in the audience taps his foot impatiently
and tries to check his watch, wondering when half past nine
will come.

Hi Galleri! Juniper here!

Sadly, I do not have much to say about this poem, although it's so brilliantly done.

Only little nitpick I have with this is:

(they'll planta tree or drift

on some toast from a camp fireplace anyway)

Oh wow, this is really beautiful! I absolutely love your word choice, it paints a perfect (if not melo-dramatic) picture!
The only thing I think you could have done a little better is explained it slightly, it's mildly confusing, but other than that, I think its a very, very good poem! It seems almost like a old folk song, dark but very beautiful, great job!

Keep Writing!