solidarity

by Sam

Published March 16, 2005

In Old Poetry

I already commented on this poem before...but after reading it again, i still think it is very well written.

I especially like the first stanza, as it's kinda funny and absolutely reeks of your style...meant in the best possible way of course...lol.

I have to go...perhaps comment some more later too...

Comments & reviews · 6
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Liz
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Liz commented Comment · Mar 19, 2005

Really good. The best part about this poem was the tone, you really pulled off a constant one. Galatea's right though: "disseminating" disrupted it. It's a cool word, but doesn't fit in with the rest of the simplicity. I really liked it though.

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emotion_less
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emotion_less commented Comment · Mar 18, 2005

I hate people like you... You always write such good poems...

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Firestarter
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Firestarter wrote a review Review · Mar 16, 2005

This was really good. Stop whining about you poetry being bad all the time! This is a sure example of how wrong you are.

he’s in love and loved me then and everything is
beautiful and nothing hurts
except, you know,
him.


I think you should remove the "you know" it loses the feel of the first stanza a little.

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Galatea
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Galatea wrote a review Review · Mar 16, 2005

Excellent work, as always, Brad. This is a really solid piece. Your really coming into your own style and as your poetry improves it is becoming easier and easier to hear your voice, which is the ultimate goal of poetry after all. I would encourage you to spend more time playing with language, buy some magnetic poetry maybe. Tell yourtself you won't use any p's in this poem...or whatever. I think you'll really benefit. Oh, and read Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti and Keroac. They are very inspiring masters of the language.


Now, on the the nitpicks:


silence creeping in....bleh. Bad metaphor and a weak beginning. You can do better.
wet feet on beige carpet.....for some reason I expect a smell here...what does the wet carpet smell like?
holding hands and whispering
sonnets to each other and blah blah blah – love -
he’s in love and loved me then and everything is
beautiful and nothing hurts
except, you know,...trash the 'you know' and bump 'him' back up here. the 'you know' interrupts the flow here...in a bad way
him.

broken trees and plastic leaves
and forgotten figurines litter...just a stylistic comment, try moving all of this line up to 'figurines' to the previous line and include litter at the start of the next
old houses brimming with mahogany wood
goodness and candles burning and....i like 'mahogany wood goodness'. it feels nice in my mouth
smiles from old women.

the houses line themselves
one by one
up and down gravel roads
and minivans fill the silence
with their dull roars
it’s never truly quiet
just when you think it is
you hear crickets chirping or cockroaches moving...move the 'cockroaches' line down to maintain a good rhythm
or the wind floating in
through a window your forgot to close....I appreciate the subtle metaphor of the window and the wind here. Good work

the smell of two boys wafts in
salty sweat from their bodies disseminating into..'disseminating' is terribly out of place here. it destroys the simplicity that makes the rest of the piece feel so nostalgic and...fuzzy
the air and the fireplace crackles
and the shadows find their home...again, great use of subtle metaphor here.

Keep up the good work, my darling!

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Areida
Review
Areida wrote a review Review · Mar 16, 2005

silence creeping in
wet feet on beige carpet
holding hands and whispering


I liked that part because I could actually feel my bare feet on the carpet...very cool. Not a lot of people can pull that off.



it’s never truly quiet
just when you think it is
you hear crickets chirping or cockroaches moving
or the wind floating in
through a window your forgot to close.


Ooh... excellent description. It really does do that, doesn't it?

All and all, this was a very well done poem. Great job.

~*~Areida~*~

PS: Stop writing so well. You're stealing all the attention.... :wink:



Books give a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything
— Plato