Young Writers Society

Thanks, Angel!

I'm trying to write the second installment and failing miserably, ha.

XD.

Cheers and thanks for all the comments

Jiggy, you have rendered me speechless...which happens every once in a while. My, this was a great poem and I am anticipating the next one. I've never read poetry from you before, and if you have before and I over looked it, then I am ashamed because talent as great as this should not be overlooked.

There were no flaws and all of your descriptions were beautiful. It just makes me want to pack my bags and move. Sorry if I this isn't technically a critique, but hopefully you'll settle for a bottle of rum. That doesn't travel well, so will a gold star, do?

Keep writing!

~Angel

It's appreciated nonetheless!

Thanks a bunch.

Cheers

So, Jiggy, you're not going to get a very good review from me because I am absolutely horrid at reviewing poetry. I did like the imagery in this poem, especially when the man is lying in the street drunk (you actually make that activity sound rather pretty and beautiful). I can also say that you expanded my vocabulary today, as I did not know that susurrus was a word until this point in time. However, I did not understand what this poem was about exactly, but you can blame that on my general thick headedness about poetry and fine art in general and be perfectly happy.

So, I liked this poem, even if I can't quite say why. Good luck with it, and I know this is a poor substitute for your wonderful reviews of Creep.

*boggles*

Oh my. XD

Thank you very much! I'm glad this is getting a positive reception. I haven't written poetry in at least a year or two so I was unsure of myself, which I'm not used to. Just ask Kitty! I was a mess on MSN. XD

Again,

Cheers.

Jiggity wrote:
(Hey there Jigs! I don't think I've ever reviewed something by you-- which I'm pretty glad I haven't because there's nothing to nit-pick at in your work. The only nit-picks I have are with your spelling; just the usual "ou" in colour that annoys me, heh. After staring at this poem for nearly two hours, I realized there is nothing wrong with it; so here comes my praise.)


Note, this will be told from a series of character perspectives within the same city, on the same path. Five segments of the one poem. Subtitle is in bold.



A man.

--

Pretty clouds of vivid colour float by
remarkable only for its absence around him;
lights flicker over dusky skin, scrabbling for purchase
but finding no hold as though he was
the too slick surface of a sewer drain.

Thousands of feet storm the pavement
the thundering repetition of beating hearts,
a distant echo; darting slips of Morse-code
twine together in delicate conversation.

Expelled breaths thrum together in a
gentle susurrus that builds and builds
until the pressure fills his head like a bloated
tumour full of noxious gases and he wants
for nothing in life but for the city to

I absolutely love this. The imagery is perfect, clear cut and simply amazing. The last stanza almost spoke a run-on sentence with its lack of punctuation, but I loved it all the same. I'm stuck here trying to find something to say other than screaming in caps about how amazing this just was. Perfect.

Inhale.

The stink of bourbon and rum sours
on the tongue, whistling through cracked
postern teeth made from crumbling, yellow paint.
Bleary eyes leak of their own accord as the bottle
rolls, clink-clanking merrily down
the path.

Splintering vision returns to the colourful
clouds that whirl and storm by in a rush
of accumulated breath washed down by
the weeping of this discarded shell; which
of these butterflies emerged from his cocoon?

Only thing I would change here is the word "stink". I somehow don't like it; I would replace it with odor or stench. I love the imagery about the teeth; very good.

Exhale.

And what so briefly filled him spews out
onto the cold stone; hacking breaths bring
forth chunks of bitter tasting memories. He
wipes them from fat lips rubbery with disuse,
flecked with snow-white curls of dead skin
yet to forget the bloom of health

These clouds continue to haunt his sky,
pregnant with thought and feeling, impressing
upon the skin (from within) lines of poetry
to mark each of them as little more than
poorly constructed sentences burdened
with adverbs and racing to meet the final
full stop.

Of all the writers in the world, why did
he have to be saddled with one haunted
by the sound of children’s laughter?

I absolutely love the second stanza here. It is beautiful-- especially the imagery portrayed here. I love the part about the sky-- how the memories burden his peace of mind; the clouds and the sky. And I love how your lack on punctuation here is making the reader rush faster towards the full stop. Beautiful.

Hey Kitty!

Thanks so much for the comments, I made some light changes to begin with.

Tell me what you think,

Cheers

Ahoy my dear! Okay so I shall start with a line by line and work my way around to general points =)

A man.

They float by, pretty [Here's my first piece of advice: change your first line! This reads as a story, dear, and you want your first line to really grab the reader's attention. Poetry has to be written with thought to every word you use because the most effective poetry is often the most concise. I would suggest something a little more metaphorical, possibly something like:
'Strobe lights float by,']
clouds of vivid colour - remarkable
only for its absence around him;
as though he is a hole in the world [Nit-pick first: your line is missing a full stop and if that was on purpose, it doesn't highly add to the imagery. But then, that's my second point anyway, 'hole in the world' is just too ordinary. I know you can think up a better simile than that. Think about it carefully, what else refuses the entry of light? Black room (perhaps he's an undeveloped photograph?), a ship at the bottom of the ocean, the inside of a person's body, a filling etc. Explore it a little.]

Thousands of feet storm the pavement
the thundering repetition of beating hearts,
a distant echo; darting slips of Morse-code
twine together in lovely conversation. [This stanza is beautiful but is the first line really necessary? No. In a poetic way, this poem would make perfect sense without it and it's such a dull, arbitrary line. So I'd suggest delete it or change it. Also, I'm not sure about lovely. It's a little calm and weak against the other words and paints no particular picture. I'd actually quite like to see the word 'delicate' here though I'm not sure why but have a think.]

Expelled breaths thrum together in a
gentle susurrus that builds and builds
until the pressure fills his head like a bloated
[s]tumour[/s] tumor full of noxious gases and he wants
for nothing in life but for the city to

Inhale. [Lovely use of moving line and I like the capitalisation. This is a very effective pause.]

The stink of bourbon and rum sours
on the tongue, whistling through cracked
postern teeth made from crumbling, yellow
paint. Bleary eyes leak of their own accord [Any particular reason paint is on a new line? I think it belongs up there next to yellow. And I love the use of postern, it is certainly fitting.]
as the bottle rolls, clink-clanking merrily down
the path.

Splintering vision returns to the colourful
clouds that whirl and storm by in a rush
of accumulated breath washed down by
the weeping of this discarded shell; which
of these butterflies emerged from his cocoon? [A lovely image, you should write poetry more often, you have a talent for it!]

Exhale.

And what so briefly filled him spews out
onto the cold stone; hacking breaths bring
forth chunks of bitter tasting memories. He
wipes them from fat lips rubbery with disuse,
flecked with snow-white curls of dead skin
yet to forget the bloom of health [I like this stanza but I feel that it diverts from the conflict between him and the passer bys a little. I liked the feel of the narrator as being an observer on the side of this man, watching almost from his perspective and I think it would be better if it didn't suddenly concentrate so heavily on him. The first time you took a step back it worked beautifully because the imagery was connected only to outer aspects of him but here you touch on his memories and health... I'm not quite sure what I'm suggesting though. Not to remove the stanza, maybe just reign it in a little.]

These clouds continue to haunt his sky,
pregnant with thought and feeling, impressing
upon the skin (from within) lines of poetry
to mark each of them as little more than
poorly constructed sentences burdened
with adverbs and racing to meet the final
full stop.

Of all the writers in the world, why did
he have to be saddled with one haunted
by the sound of children’s laughter? [I do love these two stanzas, particularly the last. There's something very final about the first and open about the last, as if it were just the beginning of something else and the contrast is beautiful.]