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Metaphorical Construction

by Kyllorac


I feel it important to note that this is the result of me taking a metaphor and running away on an exploratory adventure with it, and that it is not actually reflective of any relationships I am currently involved in.

Also that this is a prose poem, so there aren't supposed to be line breaks.

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Your pilings were built of shitty wood (and it's not your fault; you didn't design the house you've grown into) and they're falling apart beneath the weight of everything in your life. The trophies. The trinkets. The trunks overflowing with petrified baggage. The cheerful pictures you've hung (to hide the peeling paint) shudder as the house shifts again. One of them falls to the floor, shatters, glass impressed into the fibers of the handwoven rug you imported from the Orient.

Looks like glitter, you say. I should get some sparkle yarn and work up a new rug.

I get the vaccum.

The picture was hiding a hole in the plaster. Wood slats cut across the gap, no insulation in sight. Just chewed-up boards and the backside of a brick facade, pristine on the outside but crumbling against the frame.

I should patch that up, you sigh, one of these days.

I think you need a new house.

The house shifts again. You fall over, land on the floor, lie there staring at the ceiling a long time.

I don't have the energy to mow the lawn, you say with a voice fit for a funeral. Could you...?

I'm already out the door.

You are waiting for me when I return, a pitcher of mint water sweating on the coffee table, condensation pooling around the cork coaster. We talk about little things, safe things, the victories the trophies symbolize, the locales the trinkets hail from, the joys the pictures immortalize. We ignore the growing stain on the scarred wood between us, the plaster snowing down from the ceiling, the aching of the brick joints grinding to dust all around us. Instead, we talk loudly enough to drown out the groans of the mortar crumbling away, the creaking of wood dry-rotted and filled with pests, and make a plan for better times ahead.

If moving was as simple as planning, we'd have reached those better times long ago.

So for now, we sit and plan and toss more baggage into the trunks upstairs, patch the walls and sweep the dust, prop up beams and fill in cracks, pack some trinkets and polish the trophies, frame more photos, and hope the house doesn't collapse before we're ready to move.


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Sun Jul 16, 2017 5:52 pm
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Morrigan wrote a review...



Heyo, Kyll.

Really nice imagery here. I like the direction you took the idea in, as well. While this is all definitely a fantastical thought of a relationship, I felt like the flaws of the house you described really brought me into an actual house. Very nice.

That being said, I feel like this could still use some editing.

A lot of it is kinda nitpicky, so I'll spare you most of the details. I feel like there's a lot of stuff here that you can take out, and it'll be more direct. For example:

beneath the weight of everything in your life.

After you say "everything," you proceed to list the things. I feel like you should just jump into the list instead of saying "everything in your life." There are a couple other instances of this in the poem, where there's unneeded explanation(?) of the things you say in the poem.

I was about to say that you repeat words a lot, but on further inspection, that's not really true. While there are four instances of "wood" in the poem, no other word really stands out as being overused. Again, good job on imagery because I obviously was seeing the scene enough to think that I was reading what I was seeing.

I feel like the ending is a little lackluster. I'm not sure what exactly about it is giving me this feeling, but I think you should look over it again and see if you can either take it in a different direction, or work some word magic and make it a little stronger.

On second thought, I don't really know. The ending kinda mirrors the whole tone of the poem, where it's not really an ending, but it should end, you know? Like it's not really holding the poem together, but it's the best we've got, so we'll patch it up and stick with it. So uh, maybe look at the ending, but maybe you don't have to change anything?

Overall, I enjoyed reading this. The theme is well illustrated in your runaway metaphor, and lines like
I should get some sparkle yarn and work up a new rug
are going to be stuck in my head all day. I hope that this review proves useful to you! Happy poeting!




Kyllorac says...


Thanks for the review!

This is pretty raw and unedited, so please please please point out the other parts you felt were redundant so I can snippity-snip.

As for the ending, that was the exact effect I was going for, but we'll see what happens after the trimming.



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Sun Jul 16, 2017 4:45 pm
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RossLighting wrote a review...



Hi, i'm RossLighting here to do a review :)

First of all, I'd never seen one of these 'prose poems' before, so this was all new to me, a new style of writing, with no rhyming and long paragraphs. It's an interesting form of poetry. I thought at the beginning, the lists you had at the beginning were quite interesting, but you might need to specialize some stuff. I don't know if I just don't know what it is or what, but I don't know what an Orient is. Was it from a different poem? To be honest, i'm not sure how to judge it. I like it, but this is my first time reading one. I'm not really too in to poetry, but this seems cool. I'm curious about the name too. This was pretty good though, it would be cool to see another one.

Keep writing!

-Ross




Kyllorac says...


Thanks for reviewing!

Prose poems are really interesting, and I strongly recommend you look into them more. It's one of those transitionary forms between poetry and prose, and the possibilities for them are many and varied.

The Orient is an older term for basically everything east of Europe (which was called the Occident). Objects imported from the Orient have historically been prized for their rarity and quality, particularly rugs which can still be incredibly expensive depending on the country of origin, method of manufacture, and materials. Most Oriental rugs these days are mass-produced on machines, but they still carry a bit more prestige compared to a regular area rug.




I will call them my people, which were not my people; and her beloved, which was not beloved.
— Romans 9:25