http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4tkiGvV_ek
--
and the windmill in the pasture tilts its head sideways, as if to
see the plain floor from a different angle – it is the tallest structure
for miles and above it, the clouds are thin and sporadic, like heart murmurs.
the cows with their four stomachs and cud stand in the combs of alfalfa,
in the distance, their udders swinging like fleshly chandeliers and their
hides mapped by amoebas of black and white. you can smell them
from the freeway – a smell not altogether unpleasant, an early morning smell,
a smell of rubber boots and fresh, baled sweetgrass.
he sits on the fence with the banjo in his lap and the brim of his
hat tipped up – he plays to the cows. the little, runted wildflowers
are soft and never repeated, like kisses at the altar and his notes, o-shaped
and sticky fill the latesummer evening. the flatness of the land crouches
in and you can see the electrical lines stretching on, the poles crooked and
wobbling, like sealegs, dutiful and natural, and the air smells of
rain in the distance, plumbing the horizon. he sits on the fence and plays,
his fingers moving up and down the strings, like white, intelligent spiders
in their dances of web and spindle. he sings low and barely opens his mouth
and he sings songs that his father taught him about lowland hills and widows
and little wordless songs, which he sings when he is tired of singing of people,
because they make him sad. the anomalous poppies stick their tongues out
and slur like pottymouths and the birds on the telephone wires stand apart
and repeating in their fractionals and shuffling remainders.
on the plains, in the pastures, when the sun bottoms out on the horizon, it
becomes dark, and he walks home, and the milkweed shudders aside as he
walks, nipping and sighing, like lovers refused. the cows moan, the sun turns
orange and swaddles the clouds and he watches as the stars come out
and his banjo is slung over his shoulder, white and orbed –
an undiscovered moon.
the widowed windmill creaks and paddles behind him in the stillness.
the mushrooms turn up like fingerless thimbles.
Points:
Time spent:
Canary word: Present
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125,018 Literary Works • 672,861 Reviews
every so often, I return like a ghost to this website after years and years. and each time the tidal wave of nostalgia hits me the exact same way. I always come back to this poem in particular, for obvious reasons (for holly). I think of this poem every time I listen to this song, actually. you wrote this at 18! I'm 29 now and I'm still in awe. I doubt you'll ever see this but I hope you're doing well and you're still writing.
Perhaps my favorite poem of yours, or one of them.
No comments.
Every time I see your name next to a work, I find myself afraid to click– what did the genius write this time? And I have never been disappointed. This time is no exception.
Your analogies are surprising, and though abstract, are not mental gymnastics to connect. Two examples are the lines about the chandeliers and the amoebas; at first glance the images seem completely random, but they only enhance the poem instead of degrade it.
The poem, of course, is well written, and I like the topic you chose. Your syntax is that of simplicity, placidity. Clarity. There is never a moment where something comes across as trite. However, there are a couple moments that feel (subtle is more like it) as if you're describing merely for the sake of pretty words and phrases, instead of using them to further the themes of your poem.
Again, thank you for sharing this with us! I can't wait for your next submission.
–antimelrose
What surprises me the most is that you are writing like this at 18. You are right in the league of Seamus Heaney with this piece. In general I am a sucker for a solid metre and rhyme scheme but every once and a while I read something that pushes all that aside because it really is brilliant the way it is.
This is what won me over. So inventive but not reaching too far. What I like about this poem is that it is at once subtle and sticky with description, a hard balance to strike but you've done it well. Don't change a thing.
I'm a horrible person, but I didn't like this poem. XD Mind you, compared to the music video, it was awesome, but only because the music video sucked.
Now:
You're setting up your poem, it's true, but after a while (especially with your description of the cows) it seems like you're overdoing it like whooooa. And by talking about freeways... well... that isn't inviting the sort of intimacy that I think you should be aiming for. That's sort of implying that this is only going to be a moment in time whereas I think you should be aiming for the more timeless aspect.
And I don't think you really do a good job with describing the music either, as harsh as it might seem. You make describe him singing and playing the banjo, but it seems more like you're describing a painting rather than an actual song because there is no joy or emotion in describing the actual song. Which, in a sad way, is understandable because the music video is five times full of boring and suck so I can understand why it falls so flat, but I would like to see more life in the poem. After all, you aren't making a poem for a static painting--you are writing about fluid music. And never forget that.
Hope that helps!
Hello,
Obviously I loved your poem. One nitpick:
I think these two lines should be switched, because ending with mushrooms feels a little... I don't know. Unfinished. And you started with the windmill so it just seemed fitting to end with it.
This really brings the banjo to life.
Besides that, an utterly fantastic job.
I hate to utterly disagree with Snoink, but I just wanted to say that I watched that music video. Over......and over..... and over again. I don't know where Ypsilanti is, according to google it's somewhere in Michigan, but I want to live there. I didn't think the music video was fascinating, but I didn't think that was the point. People get so sucked into their CGI graphics and techno beat that they can't appreciate a simple, sweet melody from a guy with a banjo.
Also, you described the clouds perfectly.
empress
Hi, Kylan! I have to say I really loved reading this poem. The imagery you used to describe your setting made me laugh, especially things like "fleshy chandeliers." No matter what kind of work an author writes, I always look to see if the picture is clear in my mind, and you pulled it of with this. Great job!:D
I do agree with Moriah Leila; I think it would work best if you just capitalized the first word in every stanza. Other than that, though, it's not a problem. I hope you write more things like this!
Wow, I really liked this poem. It was very well-written and I enjoyed the story in the poem. Was it intentional for you not to capitalise letters? I'm not sure if it was or not, but I found it a bit distracting. I know you can break rules that normally apply in prose, if you have a good reason, and I just didn't see the reason. Also I think the poem would have been much more impactful if you cut the last two lines out and ended it with the banjo looking like an undiscovered moon.
Other than that, good job!
Hi Kylan! You know who I am, so you also probably know that I'm here to review this.
So, I am really digging this. I like the image that you have painted for us here in words. It really showcases your talents. I like how you keep referring to a few things throughout the poem, the cows especially, but also the plants and at times the telephone wires. It helps to really give a cohesive feel to this poem that I appreciated.
So, all in all, another great piece from you. Thank you for sharing it with us. If you have any questions or comments, just feel free to float me a PM.
Good job, and good luck.
-Conrad Rice