He Stood

Jah, so, what galerius said.

No, if you want to be pretentious, and do lines like "to where?" I'll tell you how. Here's how... tie them back to previous metaphors, pevious forms you've defined as THERE.

Where does the ash go? To the horizon perhaps?

Now after you've defined the form of "ash" as a valid thing to question, you could ask other question of it, which would produce MOVEMENT, it would give you ash some... substance.

Where does all the ash go?
It builds on the horizon
as storm or paper snow

Now, do this with each of your forms. Switch the way in which you normal perceive each form. Limes begs the sensation of tasting something sour, so what does ash tatse like? Maybe it is sour, sour as death, and maybe the limes are the fruits of the dead, and maybe the horizon is that final step your character is floating towards, to become one with the ash, and one with the fruit?

Or maybe not.

My point is this, examine each form in this poem as though the entire poem were based around it, and it's connection to the world. Our connection to these forms is always based on the SENSATIONS we perceive from them. So focus on the sensations, and then imagine what else could give that sensation.

Hey Hannah, sorry about the delay. Apparently I have to prove an irritance to my brother in order to borrow his computer ^^ Okay so initial thoughts. You have some gorgeous imagery here and some very well thought out lines, there were a lot of excellent visuals and I agree with the others, your only true weak point is the sailor's thoughts. They're hard to follow, they break the flow and there's something unsteady about them. Hmmm. Let's take a closer look...

Well, he woke this morning into yellow [I don't like the use of well. That better suits narrative poetry and a more casual style. I think it feels out of place here. Perhaps use 'How' instead. Try it out and see what you think.]
bleeding through the wood and canvas:
brush to sail and mast to fingertip.
And he thought to himself, [Maybe a colon here? Maybe word it better? I don't know. There's something about this line I don't like. I'd suggest something like 'Thoughts came unbidden on the wind:']

Okay so the sailor's thoughts then. I'm going to make some major edits here and suggest you write in a metre. That sounds quite strange for what is meant to be natural thoughts but it can sometimes work and well, I hope you'll forgive me for playing with your wording a little. This is just to give you an idea of how it might work, the wording can be changed of course.
if, beyond by the tip of the reach of the sky
where clouds stop their primping and fall crash [Is the flat necessary? It breaks the flow a lot. Perhaps you could have crash instead of fall to mimic the crashing and flattening of a wave?]
flat, there is a place my soaked shoes feel just right
when they fall drop from the foot of my bed, [I don't like bed. It doesn't suggest a ship. Maybe hammock or describe them dropping on to boards.]
if, beyond the sunspot and the whirlpools
that eddy past me as I go
nowhere, there is a woman whose wide hand
reaches into me and my hair and my hand
and holds it gently, swelling and retreating retreats
in due turn and with due flair,
if, beyond the dawnmist that clings so tight
to the bow, to the door, to my chin,
there is a place where the horizon clears,
is clear and straight as an old compass needle,
a place where bricks have crumbled already,
freeing the birdsto fly low and vinesto wind high,
if there is a place, I will take up my anchor.

A cigarette perched on his lip, white with a
colored tip, like the seagull that breezed overhead
(like his wing: black on white on the palette), [I love the rhythm here and the imagery is excellent.]
and trembled at the thought.
Only the ash moved, swept away (to where?),
while he stood and looked out to the harbor,
a statue as much as the arches that welcome
dirty immigrants,
a fixture as much as the fading, winking lamp
in the pub off the dock.
And he thought to himself,
yes, if somewhere beyond the scarred wood
and scrubbing rags, the shine on my deck,
there were a place where the wind
smelled like the sea and not the shore,
I would loose these ropes and skim off. [I think this section works as it is...]

But the morning was still
and the water was as good as ice,
the way he liked it, so he smiled brine.
His lips were chapped because he rubbed them.
His gums were red because
though he bought a case of limes each week, [This line is awkward and could be removed if you change the next to 'he fed his limes...']
he fed them to the cornergirls for a kiss. [Love the image of this by the way and the personality it shows.]
They circled him like sirens,
wrapping him in fishing net
and covering him under his own
billowing sails (they fell
and trapped him, though it was not much work).
Furthermore, his shoes were dry.

i thought that this is wonderful. truly, one of the best i have ever read.

Hey, Hannah! Okay, I'll just say it: this is one of the best poems I've read. Not just on YWS. Anywhere.

I'm not typically a gentle reviewer, so that's saying a lot.

I don't know, but this really painted a picture in my mind... the mist, the sailor, his life...

I think everyone else took my scanty nitpicks. My only real advice is to keep writing like this!

Thank you for a great read!

-Dreamy

Hi Hannah,

I really hope that picture you put before the poetry is for a contest or something, because I'm pretty horrified by this new trend I've seen of people putting up photos next to their written work. It defeats the point of poetry.

Anyway,

Hannah wrote:Well, he woke this morning into yellow
bleeding through the wood and canvas:

brush to sail and mast to fingertip.
And he thought to himself,
if, beyond the tip of the reach of the sky
where clouds stop their primping and fall
flat, there is a place my soaked shoes feel right
when they fall from the foot of my bed,
if, beyond the sunspot whirlpools
that eddy past me as I go
nowhere, there is a woman whose hand
reaches into me and my hair and my hand
and holds it gently, swelling and retreating
in due turn, with due flair,
if, beyond the dawnmist that clings
to the bow, to the door, to my chin,
there is a place where the horizon
is clear and straight as a compass needle,
a place where bricks have crumbled already,
freeing the birds to fly low and vines to wind high,
if there is a place, I will take up my anchor.

A cigarette perched on his lip, white with a
colored tip, like the seagull that breezed overhead
(like his wing: black on white on the palette),
and trembled at the thought.
Only the ash moved, swept away (to where?),

while he stood and looked out to the harbor,
a statue as much as the arches that welcome
dirty immigrants,
a fixture as much as the fading, winking lamp
in the pub off the dock.
And he thought to himself,
yes, if somewhere beyond the scarred wood
and scrubbing rags, the shine on my deck,
there were a place where the wind
smelled like the sea and not the shore,
I would loose these ropes and skim off.

But the morning was still
and the water was as good as ice,
the way he liked it, so he smiled brine.
His lips were chapped because he rubbed them.
His gums were red because
though he bought a case of limes each week,
he fed them to the cornergirls for a kiss.
They circled him like sirens,
wrapping him in fishing net
and covering him under his own
billowing sails (they fell
and trapped him, though it was not much work).
Furthermore, his shoes were dry.

Hi, Hannah, here I am as you asked me to. I don't know how qualified I am to try to review this, because there's only so much for me to learn about poetry, but I will try. =) I'll keep it simple.

The beginning stanza was a little hard for me to grasp at parts. Especially the part in italics seemed too much like a list, a bit choppy, maybe. The language was beautiful, though, and I particularly enjoyed this line:

a place where bricks have crumbled already,

This was quite good! I liked the tone of the poem and way you used a sailor as the subject.

The only parts that didn't quite fare well for me was when the sailor's thoughts started coming in. It felt rushed and the flow didn't suit the rest of the poem.

Other nitpick(s):

Hannah wrote:smelled like the sea and not the shore,
I would loose these ropes and skim off.

A musing seafarer.

This was all flowed like that, like the narrator was musing after different thoughst in his head, and they all came off very pretty.

The presentation of it all, along with the word flow went smoothly so that even abrupt line drops diddnt throw me off.

I dont give reviews for Grammar.... seeing as its me and I used a four dot elipse.

anyways, I enjoyed it throughly.

Here I am!

This is lovely my dear!

Now, I'm really liking the image of the sailor.

A cigarette perched on his lip, white with a
colored tip, like the seagull that breezed overhead
(like his wing: black on white on the palette)

if, beyond the tip of the reach of the sky
where clouds stop their primping and fall
flat, there is a place my soaked shoes feel right
when they fall from the foot of my bed,
if, beyond the sunspot whirlpools
that eddy past me as I go

I solemnly swear I will review this.