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I love this poem because it's very touching and personal. Your use of similes and symbolism is flawless and it was like I could actually picture the journey. Great poem!!

Lumichu, those last two stanza's made this. Absolutely made this.

I was skeptical as I usually am with most prose-like pieces. It came across as being very... telly and it did not really appeal to the all the senses as I'm sure it, or you could have. Of course, as I read into it a little more, I changed my mind about the metaphor. This feels like allegory. That girl feels like a personified emotion.

I may be reading too closely into this but I don't think you were simply trying to tell a story with this one. I could be wrong. I know I've been on multiple occasions, but this feels far too close to giving a voice to what cannot be understood without. Giving a face to what we fear in ourselves. I see this as a way of conveying something in which you do not really want to simply speak. That writing it out like a diary entry would not fulfill you or anyone around you, for that matter. And this could either be a simple, basic poem or pure, utter genius.

I think that's why you confuse me so much. This open-ended way in which you take and you give without the slightest inkling of how its going to be read. Its so basic and aesthetically plain that anything could sprout if the reader gives themselves the chance or the heart to let it.

I remember you telling me that you love songs with simple lyrics. I must say that I agree.

That being said, I'm so stunned on this one. So stumped. As a short story, this would be beautiful, but not in the way that this poem is. Just like the Ronson Kiss. You narrate and balance on the invisible line of poetry and prose that I don't really know what to grasp. And if I'm even grasping at anything at all.

So I'm going to have to disagree with Mustard simply because I don't believe this to be tell-tell-tell.

On the line of diction, I will say that there is a level of disappointment that did arise. Not particularly still there after finishing those last two stanza's per say, but I had hoped you would take on that rather intimate voice in which you used with the Ronson Kiss. This voice is stronger. It tells a tale with a bit more confidence and a little less illusions. Simply speaking, you are addressing rather than flitting around aimlessly, and there is something to be said about that.

Now, I want to digress towards those last two stanza's. In fact, I would like to speak on why they astounded me so, so I hope you don't mind how rantish I've been getting.

I've been suffering from anxiety and depression for the past couple years and when I read those lines, I choked. They were more familiar to me than I could ever possibly admit. You captured that, whether or not as a story or as a personified ideology. You captured it to a tee. The running and the inevitable catch. The way that its okay as long as there's a chance to run again, and its an endless, wicked cycle between the heart and the pain, wondering if the two should ever rest as one and if one whole could handle always crashing and reviving. It makes that lump rise in my throat.

Whether or not the greater portion of this poem was telly or not, you made something truly respectable in my books. I'm sorry I could not have been of more usage on this one. I'm truly astounded.

~Walker

Lumidarling -- I struggled, I admit it, so if this makes no sense then please disregard it as a lost cause! Apologies for the lack of elegance and conviction, but I find your poetry very hard to review.

1. Imagery

Ohgodwheretobegin?
It seems like there are more than a couple of themes/images in this poem:

• Illness/hospitals -- the "hospital-bedside" similie, references to medication, allusions to dementia and a therapy ward.
• Driving -- the sixteen miles, turns in the road, travelling (possibly a metaphor for life).
• Nothingness -- zeros, forgetting, aimlessness.
• Magnetism? -- attraction, metallic, razors.

This is going to be a fail compared to any other post I've done.

I really like this.. I'm kind of speechless.

Hello dear,

Thanks for the request.
I don't think I've reviewed anything for you before, well if I have I don't remember You might have heard me say this before but just to make myself really clear;

I'm not an expert with poetry. It's something I really want to acheive and I'm working on it often but it's not a strong point of mine. I love reading, writing it and reviewing it, even though my version of poems can be a little *coughs* on the bad side. Anyhow, I don't think my reviewing standards on poetry are as bad as my poetry itself. So you're ok.

If I repeat things, I apologies but I haven't read any of the reviews below so please do excuse me if I repeat what other people have said.

Now, apart from all of that, I'll get on to what you've been waiting for. I'll go through stanza by stanza giving my opinion as I go. Before I start; congratulations on being featured.

Lumi wrote:We drive through the country on a summer night,
engine humming low and the radio so soft
it almost lulls you to sleep, but every time your
breathing gets quiet, I squeeze your hand
like that faithful daughter by her father’s bedside,
waiting for the haunting hum of the heart’s last gasp.

I’m proud—
proud because your breathing is so even,
because you don’t panic when headlights flood your eyes.
It’s been a whole hour since the last attack, dear,
and I love you more than ever.

You say maybe,
maybe the medicine’s working this time;
and the side-effects aren’t so bad, they aren’t
so bad after all. And when I tell you I miss the blue
shaking in your eyes, you say your eyes
aren’t worth the attention anyway.

and the side-effects aren’t so bad, they aren’t
so bad after all. And when I tell you I miss the blue

Sometimes I imagine you with blank eyes,
vacant like the boys we see at the therapy ward
whose hands turned so pale forgetting the sun.
And I imagine you with them, there where I’d only see
your eyes and hands and remark on how lovely
you are even though you’ve forgotten my name.

whose hands turned so pale forgetting the sun.

But you don’t like me thinking those things, you say; No comma after things and no semi-colon after you say.It's not needed and cuts the flow.
and you kiss my eyelids as we lie down to sleepI'd take out the and here, it makes the rythme un-easy.
just a few hours before you’ll wake up and cling to me,
afraid of the nothingness because it’s all too much—
it’s too much to handle.

It’s when you say things like that, those little
spots of yellow paint on the canvas of your eyes,
that I hesitate at trying to cure you
like a man with open sores or
a woman with burning blood.

The clock turns to zeroes and you
check to be sure we’ve traveled
just enough to feel free, but not far enough
to feel aimless; we must never feel aimless.
Because the tightest breath of panic
catches after sixteen miles when you can’t
recall the turns in the highway, the signs
on the road.

And I start to think we’ll make it when you resetNo AND here.
the miles on the dash. You say that the miles
between warmth and worry are the length
of my arms, the curve of my neck, and as
you lie against me, as you breathe against August’s lips,
I imagine these drives forever, always
pushing just one turn past sixteen until you can
rest again.

You asked for it Lumi. Dijon here to do your review.

Life certainly tosses shit at us we don't expect Lumi. Doors open, doors close, doors never existed. Either too young or old to do something about them most of the time. Then we get lucky and are born the right way or just prepared. So I'm glad we both got to be in this moment right now, despite everything else in life. Take that moment to reflect. Two years from now life will be different, hopefully. Maybe we could, or you could, revisit this then. Nonetheless, your poem.

Lumi wrote:We drive through the country on a summer night,
engine humming low and the radio so soft
it almost lulls you to sleep, but every time your
breathing gets quiet, I squeeze your hand
like that faithful daughter by her father’s bedside,
waiting for the haunting hum of the heart’s last gasp.

I’m proud—
proud because your breathing is so even,
because you don’t panic when headlights flood your eyes.
It’s been a whole hour since the last attack, dear,
and I love you more than ever.

You say maybe,
maybe the medicine’s working this time;
and the side-effects aren’t so bad, they aren’t
so bad after all. And when I tell you I miss the blue
shaking in your eyes, you say your eyes
aren’t worth the attention anyway.

Sometimes I imagine you with blank eyes,
vacant like the boys we see at the therapy ward
whose hands turned so pale forgetting the sun.
And I imagine you with them, there where I’d only see
your eyes and hands and remark on how lovely
you are even though you’ve forgotten my name.

But you don’t like me thinking those things, you say;
and you kiss my eyelids as we lie down to sleep
just a few hours before you’ll wake up and cling to me,
afraid of the nothingness because it’s all too much—
it’s too much to handle.

You never can explain it, how the fog seems to latch,
cling to your skin like bristles to wool. You say
you feel empty and magnetic like—
like a metal ball, attracting every
nail, every razor’s edge that draws near—but
that the nails fall away once I kiss your jaw.

It’s when you say things like that, those little
spots of yellow paint on the canvas of your eyes,
that I hesitate at trying to cure you
like a man with open sores or
a woman with burning blood.

The clock turns to zeroes and you
check to be sure we’ve traveled
just enough to feel free, but not far enough
to feel aimless; we must never feel aimless.
Because the tightest breath of panic
catches after sixteen miles when you can’t
recall the turns in the highway, the signs
on the road.

And I start to think we’ll make it when you reset
the miles on the dash. You say that the miles
between warmth and worry are the length
of my arms, the curve of my neck, and as
you lie against me, as you breathe against August’s lips,
I imagine these drives forever, always
pushing just one turn past sixteen until you can
rest again.

I love this poem, it is full with emotion and very good imagery. I noticed little things but they were cleared up by the people that reviewed before me. Overall, nice poem and keep on writing.

Finally got to this Lumsters. Tried to make it encompass this piece more.

There are parts to this I enjoyed reading, pushed the piece forward. Then there were parts that hit the brakes on that. Then there are parts that work like adding weight to a sinking ship. You like this piece yes? It's got parts to it that are personable, more real then anything I've seen you write, but quickly slink back to your old ways.

Let me start by the one part that was like a bomb of destruction on your piece.

afraid of the nothingness because it’s all too much—
it’s too much to handle.

We drive through the country on a summer night, [PAUSE] <- Natural
engine humming low and the radio so soft [PAUSE] <- Unnatural
it almost lulls you to sleep, but every time your [PAUSE] <- Very unnatural
breathing gets quiet, I squeeze your hand [PAUSE] <- Mildly unnatural
like that faithful daughter by her father’s bedside, [PAUSE] <- Natural
waiting for the haunting hum of the heart’s last gasp.

It’s when you say things like that, those little
spots of yellow paint on the canvas of your eyes,
that I hesitate at trying to cure you
like a man with open sores or
a woman with burning blood.

And I start to think we’ll make it when you reset
the miles on the dash. You say that the miles
between warmth and worry are the length
of my arms, the curve of my neck, and as
you lie against me, as you breathe against August’s lips,
I imagine these drives forever, always
pushing just one turn past sixteen until you can
rest again.

Hey,

This just might be the first review I ever gave you. It might be a little short; I just wrote a pretty long review for Persephoneia and my fingers hurt.

Green is stuff I like. Red are comments. Blue is the highlighted stuff I'm commenting on.

Lumi wrote:

Spoiler

I fail at short poetry. Thanks to Spike and Blues for helping me trim some fat.

We drive through the country on a summer night, I've read other stuff by you; you have the talent to make the intro more catching. Right now, it reads like a story and I'm not sure I like it.
engine humming low and the radio so soft
it almost lulls you to sleep, but every time your
breathing gets quiet, I squeeze your hand
like that faithful daughter by her father’s bedside,
waiting for the haunting hum of the heart’s last gasp.

I'm not sure what's going on yet or what the relationship is between these two characters, but right now I see a guy and a girl, the girl speaking? This reads very much like prose, which is not neccesarily a bad thing. However, while the descriptions are excellent, the words can be more delicate, more poetic.

I’m proud—
proud because your breathing is so even,
because you don’t panic when headlights flood your eyes.
It’s been a whole hour since the last attack, dear,
and I love you more than ever.

I like this entire thing, but again, I think it reads like a story. The last two lines are amazing. I'm still not understand the connection between these two, I'm still thinking it's a guy and a girl, possibly married, but the guy is sick, somehow?

You say maybe,
maybe the medicine’s working this time;
and the side-effects aren’t so bad, they aren’t
so bad after all. And when I tell you I miss the blue
shaking in your eyes, you say your eyes
aren’t worth the attention anyway.

You've heard it twice, you'll hear it again. It reads to me like a story. You portray these characters very well, but I'm not seeing pizzaz with your words, they are quite bland. I see a story here; not a poem. Maybe that's the point? I'm not sure. I can see you attempted to do end this stanza on a poetic note, and the attempt worked pretty well, but you have the talent to make this much better.

Sometimes I imagine you with blank eyes,
vacant like the boys we see at the therapy ward
whose hands turned so pale forgetting the sun.
And I imagine you with them, there where I’d only see
]your eyes and hands and remark on how lovely
you are even though you’ve forgotten my name.

Here we go! I love this. It's more emotional, more vivid with the words and descriptions and such. I don't like the blue highlighted part very much, though it's probably my queasy stomach speaking; it gives me the image of crawling hands and eyeballs all over a mental ward and it's not a very pleasant picture. I really like the 'remark on how lovely..etc' part and the 'Sometimes I imagine you with...etc' part, though.


But you don’t like me thinking those things, you say;
and you kiss my eyelids as we lie down to sleep
just a few hours before you’ll wake up and cling to me,
afraid of the nothingness because it’s all too much—
it’s too much to handle.

I don't understand the last part of the blue highlighted bit. So the sick person says that the not-sick narrator wll wake up and cling to her/him? It confuses me, but other than that, brilliant stanza.

You never can explain it, how the fog seems to latch,
cling to your skin like bristles to wool. You say I don't like the use of 'cling' again, but I like it better in the above stanza than this one.
you feel empty and magnetic like—
like a metal ball, attracting every
nail, every razor’s edge that draws near—but
that the nails fall away once I kiss your jaw.

Overall, this stanza was very nice. The feeling that I was reading a story is gone and I wish the above stanzas were more like this one, because it's veeeeerryyyy good!

It’s when you say things like that, those little
spots of yellow paint on the canvas of your eyes,
that I hesitate at trying to cure you
like a man with open sores or
a woman with burning blood.

Perfect.

The clock turns to zeroes and you
check to be sure we’ve traveled
just enough to feel free, but not far enough
to feel aimless; we must never feel aimless.
Because the tightest breath of panic
catches after sixteen miles when you can’t
recall the turns in the highway, the signs
on the road.

Perfect again. I love the incorporation of 'sixteen miles' here, instead of the first or last stanza or something. I like how it's not a very big deal in the narration of the poem itself, but it fits perfectly as the title.

And I start to think we’ll make it when you reset
the miles on the dash. You say that the miles
between warmth and worry are the length
of my arms, the curve of my neck, and as
you lie against me, as you breathe against August’s lips, Oh my gosh, I love these lines.
I imagine these drives forever, always
pushing just one turn past sixteen until you can
rest again.

I think the ending was a bit anti-climatic. It was good, but it could have been much better.

Hey, hey!

Alright so I'm a little conflicted over this one. On the one side, I love your tone and the content behind it is great; there's a wonderful story that's building up and you've done the genre of Narrative poetry proud in that sense. However, I'd like some parts of it to be firmer. I feel that the reader doesn't take enough away with them after reading this and that's a shame because it's a beautiful piece and it feels like it should have more affect on its audience.

You capture your reader well and bring them in close, tell them the story and then you bring them in closer still, as if to give the moral but at the last moment say nothing. It's perfectly enjoyable in its own right but I don't know what to think of its intentions. I feel as if it should make me sad or something but it doesn't particularly. So... I don't know. Anyway! On to the comments:

We drive through the country on a summer night,
engine humming low and the radio so soft
it almost lulls you to sleep, but every time your
breathing gets quiet, I squeeze your hand
like that faithful daughter by her father’s bedside,
waiting for the haunting hum of the heart’s last gasp. [Oh man now this is hard to read. Do remember that poetry is written to be read out loud and while it often isn't these days, it should still be constructed in such a way that it can be. By the time I hit gasp, I really was just out of breath. There's nowhere to stop. It's nice in that the words wash over you and it reflects the movement of the car, I'm sure but I think it needs a full stop in there. Maybe after sleep? That would be nicely reflective of the wording if nothing else. And then a comma after but would follow that smoothly. Also, love the use of gasp. I like how is stands out sharper against the other words and the internal rhyme of last and gasp is wonderful. Very nice.]

I’m proud—
proud because your breathing is so even, [Hmm. This line should be more poetic. It feels much too like prose and halts your flow somewhat. I'd suggest something like, 'of your even breath, proud'.]
because you don’t panic when headlights flood your eyes.
It’s been a whole hour since the last attack, dear,
and I love you more than ever. [Not sure about this line either. It's a little too ordinary and tells us nothing of the speaker or their feelings. If the speaker is trying to reassure themself of their love, it should be more exaggerated. If you want a dark spin to it, that could be done too. I think it just needs to give us a clue about your persona, otherwise this could be the words of absolutely any character. In poetry there's no room for ordinary lines or at least, they can only be ordinary if they are so purposefully.]

Sometimes I imagine you with blank eyes,
vacant like the boys we see at the therapy ward
whose hands turned so pale forgetting the sun. [A little grammar here would make this line easier to read. Perhaps a comma after pale? Alternatively you could re-phrase to along the lines of: 'whose hands forgot the sun and paled like papyrus.']
And I imagine you with them, there where I’d only see
your eyes and hands and remark on how lovely
you are even though you’ve forgotten my name.

But you don’t like me thinking those things, you say;
and you kiss my eyelids as we lie down to sleep
just a few hours before you’ll wake up and cling to me,
afraid of the nothingness because it’s all too much—
it’s too much to handle. [Wait, we're out of the car now? I don't like this stanza. I liked the continuity of being in the car, of your persona thinking these thoughts while the other character leaned against him/ her and half slept.]

It’s when you say things like that, those little
spots of yellow paint on the canvas of your eyes,
that I hesitate at trying to cure you
like a man with open sores or
a woman with burning blood. [Now I love how this stanza started out but I don't think you finished the image as strongly as you could have done. I think what you meant to portray was that there's something the persona likes about this illness as it leaves the other character dependent on them, it leads to this closeness between them, to this sort of relationship that is sort of perfect and might not be were the character not ill. But the examples you've chosen, you haven't explained what's good about them. They're just loose images tagged on. Choose one and explain it more thoroughly. Like:
'that I hesitate at trying to cure you,
like a man with open sores
revealing his heart.']

A lovely ending, very nicely closed. Well there's not much else I can say about it except thanks for the read and if you've got any questions, feel free to get in touch! I think you've done a nice job so far and there's a little that could be trimmed (like that stanza I pointed out) but this is good so nice work!

Heather xxx

This is a reminder for myself.

Hey Lumi.

You say
you feel empty and magnetic like—
like a metal ball, attracting every

It’s when you say things like that, those little
spots of yellow paint on the canvas of your eyes,
that I hesitate at trying to cure you
like a man with open sores or
a woman with burning blood.

This poem burns slowly. After my first read-through, this was an "awwwww" poem. Then after second and third and fourth and fifth read-throughs I started noticing the conflict in what the speaker wants for the girl, the contrast between the anxiety and calm.
This entire poem is incredibly conflicted, which is hardly a bad thing. People are conflicted, and you capture that beautifully. The narrator wants the girl to get better, but there is something in him that needs her to be vulnerable. When she is having attacks, she needs him and he knows that, so you've created this conflict between his desire for what's best for her, and his need to be important to him. He doesn't seem particularly horrified at the thought of her pills making her a mindless vacant, he actually seems somewhat wistful. What's particularly interesting is that your speaker is by no means dominant. His seeming contentedness with her ongoing troubles isn't out of a desire to keep her weak so he can be in control, it's a form of submission. He wants her to be vulnerable because only when she needs him does he know that she will use him. This leaves you with someone trying desperately to balance, to help but not help too much. His conflict is created by the ongoing struggle of helping without detaching.
The entire poem seems to sit on the center of a balance. You've built this scene where the reader can hear the rushing of the highway underneath and feel the warmth of the heater perfectly counteracting the cool air outside. It's calm and content and smooth, but there's so much conflict and anxiety filling that car that it seems like it should be exploding with angst. Have you heard the song Rolled Together? The melody is "Rolled together we're about to burst apart/Rolled together with a burning paper heart" repeated over and over again. But rolling over those angst-filled lyrics are these rich, soothing guitar lines. That's what you've given us with this poem: pain dissolved in comfort. They are finding that place between 0 and 16, trying to eternally stay in the warmth between a home they can't bear and a destination they can't bear.
I think you've been a little tricky with your characters. I've been referring to the speaker as male and his counterpart as female, but you don't really give any direct gender references to either. People often assume that the writer and the speaker are the same, which is why I have been referring to the characters as I have, but I don't think that's the case here. In fact, it's a daughter that the speaker compares herself to, and it is the boys in the therapy ward that her counterpart is compared to, which just might mean that your eyes are the ones doing the shaking.

You stay in present tense through a shift in times, which bothers me. You have them in the car in present tense and them in the bed present tense. It is surprisingly subtle for how large of a discrepancy it is, but it does keep the reader from truly being immersed in the present moment because the reader doesn't know what the present moment is.

You never can explain it, how the fog seems to latch,
cling to your skin like bristles to wool. You say
you feel empty and magnetic like--
like a metal ball, attracting every
nail, every razor’s edge that draws near, but
that the nails fall away once I kiss your jaw.

waiting for the haunting hum of the heart’s last gasp.

because you don’t panic when headlights light your eyes.

whose hands turned so pale forgetting the sun.

nail, every razor’s edge that draws near, but

that I hesitate at trying to cure you
like a man with open sores,
a woman with burning blood.

Hello there.

I only have two nitpicks:

because you don’t panic when headlights light your eyes.

Sometimes I imagine you with blank eyes,

Wow, this is really good. I like that it isn't over-articulated, but there's still that feeling of something deeper and honest about it that makes it feel sweet. You use your words well, so who cares if it's a little lengthy. It's not overdone, and it doesn't try to hard. It's just beautiful.
Keep writing,
~StoryWeaver*

Ah, I liked this a lot. It reminds me of a lot of personal things... like. A lot. But anyway, I'm glad that you can't do short poetry, you have so much substance in this piece... and I think its perfect fluff and all =] A lovely lovely piece, filled with emotion. Keep it up =]