Published December 19, 2009
glistening, skinned fruit – they lie on the dissecting trays
still and unmoving, like disciplined children. fluking tubes,
arteries stopped mid-squirm beneath the slicker of flesh, and
unreleased thumps held back like hiccups. i look outside at
the papery dead insects on the sill, cast-off pianissimos of shuck
and skeleton. they tremble in cobwebs, like prayers in a big church
and the hearts are red and amphibian in their cold, refrigerated
bloodlessness.
we push our thumbs all the way down the canals and thoroughfares
of the organ, until we meet an icy crunch, as they are not completely
unthawed. pale, squeamish faces, knuckles on the stainless steel tables.
you make a face as you hold the heart – lobed, pinched, pink, the warmed
flesh starts to smell a little, the smell of stale romance and
unwritten loveletters.
snipping scalpels, following the veins and tributaries, bloody
latex – we pass the heart around the table, strange and pillaged,
shedding itself, rotten blossom. slipping from our grip and
wriggling like some great escapist. its chambers red, plush,
curtained, secret and blooming and not yet discovered, like the
beds of adulterers. we learn about systole and diastole, and
we listen to the heart, as if it will remember its voice again and
sound out its bloody syllables.
I let you open it up, completely, so that the soft darkrooms of flesh
gape open like yawning cats. purkinje fibers parting nets, the weary
passages finally disclosed and the unfrozen blood dripping dark
and red – cooled passion on wax paper.
our slippery latex hands touch for a moment, the windows let in
the cold, instant winter light, and the heart slides sideways. I smile
at how pale you are and the hearts in the room let out all their pent-up
desires, dreams, worries, and fears, like stories finally told, like held breath
finally released.
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139,643 Literary Works • 672,638 Reviews
Oh my gosh... This poem gave me the shivers but at the same time I was compelled to read more. Really awesome job!
Kylan, dahling!
Off we go.
You know the drill by now. If there is something you cannot decipher from my handwriting, please tell me.
The imagery in this poem is wonderful. The only thing that caught me up was the last of stanza two. I think the ending of the stanza would be more powerful if you ended it after "flesh starts to smell a little".
Hope this helps,
Cal.
The descriptions in this were absolutely, deliciously disgusting, and just your command of imagery was absolutely amazing. Truly, I most definitely was awed by this piece. The only things I have to offer as far as critiques go is that I'm not sure if the way you have your lines structurd is the best way in the world, but that's really choice, not mine
And also that sometimes it seemed like, as absolutely amazing as the imagery was, sometimes it seemed as though it lacked direction, if that makes sense. But seriously, this was absolutely amazing, for sure 
Alright.
I've been wondering about this too, actually, because this poem felt like less than the sum of it's parts, and I tried (and failed, I think) to articulate why.
I think your experience with the "you" is illustrative, because I wonder what would happen if you knew who "you" was. It would be better for it, I think. Now, I understand, that's something you can't just go out and do on cue, but I think part of the problem is that "you" doesn't seem defined. I don't think "you" can just be another literary device- it's probably the lynchpin of the poem. Here we have all these dead hearts, and the trick then is to connect them to the beating hearts in the room. So I guess what I wanted to see was what it's like to have a real heart- how do you use your heart? When you're heart is revealed on an opperating table, what will it leave behind?
And, essentially this poem didn't really make that real to me. It was more or less a clinical description of the event, rendered in wonderful poetry. But there's got to be some poetry in the moment too, there's got to be some poetry in that event. Uncover that at the end.
Did I do a better job this time? Maybe not.
Still and unmoving? Redundant, that seems, and not to great effect.
This, I love without reservation.
[quotei look outside at
the papery dead insects on the sill, cast-off pianissimos of shuck
and skeleton.[/quote]
I am not quite convinced of the synaesthesia here; sound and sight don't quite mesh, there's not enough of a connection between 'soft sounds' and 'shuck' and 'skeleton'. Or exoskeleton. But maybe.
'Like prayers in a big church' left me cold. Webs and echoes? Spiders and God? I have to strain to see a parallel.
'Cold, refrigerated', while not as redundant as 'still and unmoving', seems excessive. Bloodlessness also seems too awkward a word for a poem this graceful.
I love this, too. With both my hearts.
I think there is more you could do with the image of cutting along the veins. Too much opportunity in that image to be squandered.
And this too I am enamored of.
So they aren't bloodless, then? Also excellent, although the phrase 'purkinje fibers parting nets' seems like it needs one more word. Preferably a verb. Or at the very least a comparative conjunction.
The best line of the poem, I think.
A good ending, but not quite as strong as that line, and so it seems not quite adequate. Not sure how to improve it, though.
/IS AS USELESS AND SUBJECTIVE AS EVER; but aims to please!
Smorg --
"You" shows up in a lot of my poems. And honestly, I don't know who "you" is. I could say it's some love interest or perhaps something to add another dimension to the poem. I like the latter better. "You" helps add emotion and she's apart of the subtler meaning of this poem. This brings me to the subject of the origin of the heart. This poem was based on an experience I had dissecting pig hearts, but I purposefully left out the qualification in order to allow that deeper, subtler meaning. It could be a human heart (which I prefer); it could be a pig/sheep heart. It's up to the reader.
As for the emotion, I'm not sure how I could enhance it, other than starting over completely. I'm glad you enjoyed it to some extent.
Thanks to everyone else for the kind words!
-Kylan
Hey Kylan. This was quite good. It had a cool, creepy feel to it. Your imagery was fantastic, and I could definitely feel like I was there. However, there were some places in the story that read more like prose then poetry, but other then that, it was great.
Keep Writing.
I could talk about how the writing is beautiful, but I think you know this already. Instead I'll ask a question;
So, what's the point?
Spoiler
There's not much use in dissecting the language here- I'd have only a few notes. Just briefly, I didn't like "like a great escapist", and insects are not amphibian. Yet I loved 'loveletters' as one word and "like the beds of adulterers".
But this poem is like Al Capone's vault. It looks good, sounds great, and when it comes to what it holds deep inside... I just don't see it. I'm not saying that it's not there, but I am saying that it's not accessible.
There's this wonderful little digression about the dead insects on the windowsill that never goes very far. Then the hearts are frozen- but we never learn more about that. And finally, of course, there's "you".
Now you really don't need more than one of these threads, but I do think you need something. This is what you have right now. Pretty, but it's a potemkin village, not the real thing. What you're aiming for is this. Your ending reaches for it, and touches it, if just briefly. But I didn't find the emotion that I should've on the page.
I want to know about this "you". Because all the love and beauty in this poem isn't directed towards a frozen sheep's heart is it?
***
I assume you're not using real human hearts, which would, admittedly, put quite a new spin on this poem...
No, Kamas.
It was 'Holy sweet mother jesus O.O."
Also, I refuse to review this.
Awesome job.
-JD
Kylan, now that I've read this. I'm just,
Ask chat, first comment after I was done was 'Holy sweet mother jesus."
It was horribly graphic and beautiful, sends shivers up my spine.
I can't even review it. Absolutely marvelous. Really, where do you get this stuff?
*gold stars*
Kamas
wowza, that was quite a poem. and I mean that in a good way :) I thought it was beautifully disturbing, if you know what I mean: the language you used was lovely, the imagery vivid, the sound of the words pleasant when read aloud. but of course it's got a nasty organ being passed around a room, which gives me a bit of a creepy icky feeling. I like this bit even though its yucky:
and I also like the next bit, too:
sorry I can't be helpful and give you useful advice or anything, but to be honest I would feel a little funky giving YOU advice, since your poems are always way superly awesomer than anything I can write :P so all in all, I quite liked this poem, although I don't think I would quite read it as a bedtime story or anything like that.
anyways, good job :)