Angelboy left home

War memories really stick in the mind and refuse to go. Even after fifteen years they can still cause eccentricities and all that. It’s a significant theme for a poem how these memories entangle the old (‘extant realities’) but the new generation in the telly is raring to forget and move forward.

‘Angelboy left home’ is a beautiful poem. Usually I don’t take poems to task so much about what they mean explicitly or even in this case how the title relates. It’s a lyric, isn’t it? I look at the big picture. The structure you have makes it flow like a big river, irreverent and blessedly free. It does not need to be straight, pours out the whole emotion any which way. (Hey if your other poems ain’t got no ‘heinous format’, you take it back on the double quick and make them thoroughly heinous!) No, I think it is rather heinously beautiful.

The startling imagery ‘cold, black bone’ marks a change in tone and now the guy wants the bizarre and unreal to lull him to sleep, remind him of his daughter and give him sweet dreams. Otherwise no sleep for him. Stanza eight (of eleven) is masterly poetry. I’d like the instrument to be a sitar. And I am convinced by the poem’s own goodness it is good enough to knock the old man out with the first note. Keep it up, Pompadour!

Hi,

I loved the idea behind this poem, and how the aftermath of the war was presented within it was quite melancholic, spooky, which I thought was awesome. I particularly liked your line,
'and she plays--oh so beautifully plays--songs of youth--
forgotten--old--.'
It really drew me into the poem, and gave it quite an interesting rhythm for a while.
Whilst we are on rhythm, though I know that a lot of poems don't really stick to a particular rhythm or anything, yours is very irregular in certain places and can become quite chaotic. If this is what you wanted to achieve, then that's great, but if not, you should address this. This is a great poem and I wouldn't want to lose the thread of it just as I was getting into it.

Your stanzas are also extremely irregular in their size. Once again, I understand that many poems don't have regular stanza sizes, but it would just make it a little easier to read, and help it to flow better if the range of size weren't so large.

Apart from that, I really loved your poem, it was different to others that I'd read before, which alone makes it exceptional. I also loved everything else about it, so well done.

Please keep writing, I look forward to reading your work!
priceofwords

Hello Pompadour!
As always, your poetry is amazing... I always get trapped up in it. It's almost dangerous, because I can spend so long reading your works. xD
Anyways, any nitpicks I had, Autumns covered pretty thoroughly. The only thing I really wanted to mention was the fact you use so many of these: --
I'm having a bit of a brain malfunction trying to remember what they're called :/ Anyways, I figured that was just something you wanted to use in the poem to create pauses in the poem for emphasis and flow, but just in case I wanted to mention it here.
I really liked this poem!! I don't know why, but it makes me think of a house I used to live in, and how I always thought about the history it must have had. It was so, so old and creaked too much, but it was still interesting thinking about what it went through. It was a nice memory, so thank you for that!
I also really enjoyed the imagery and diction you used... despite the rhythm, which threw me off at first, I was able to read and be completely absorbed by it. I love it when poetry does that! My favorite line has to be: "teasing telescopic facts about human nature and youth.
it is bizarre, it is unreal, it
can never be true;"
I don't know why I love that line so much, but it just really struck me.
Anyways!
That was all You did a great job with this one It was fun to read!

Hey Pomps. My thoughts-

it has been fifteen years since the war
and the basement refuses to forget--
the walls still bleak, strewn
with signatures of those-who-came,
those-who-lingered,
and those-who-left.
it is no wonder that the house quakes tonight.
it is no wonder you can't sleep.

the television speaks of memorandum, and onward--
'moving on'--'forwards'--'don't look back';
and the forgetfulness is a blow
to everything you knew--to
extant realities that still leave
carvings over your bones, piercing
nuclear-alarms that weep on your shoulders, that even
the highest dosages cannot dim.

(you wonder what will become
of the screams when you have gone,
if they will haunt another unfortunate treader.)

your fingers are clumsy as you flip through the channels,
the remote is--barely there--fragile--like
cold, black bone--
and you close the telly with less than delicate grace.
your hands are never warm. you crave
comfort, and the sound
of voices filled with laughter--
with compassion--with
teasing telescopic facts about human nature and youth.
it is bizarre, it is unreal, it
can never be true;

so you press your ear against the partitioning wall.

you listen hungrily.

but the neighbours, tonight, are silent;
there is no
music to lull you to sleep.

(you knock twice against the panelled oak.)

she hears--the neighbour's daughter--
the one who--smiles at you--
occasionally visits--reminds you of
your own so far, far, far away.
and she plays--oh so beautifully plays--songs of youth--
forgotten--old--
sometimes Elvis.

you remember
late-night conversations; him,
his portrait hanging on the wall;
sirens, nuclear alarms drowned drowned drowning
in clear love heartbeats and warmth.

she plays well into the night, not knowing
that now, at the first note, you fall asleep.

(light exhalations linger still
on the porch as though refusing to admit
it is the apex of after-hour-dissymmetry.)