...

I'm quite aware this is almost an entire month late. But that's kind of how I work.

And since I'm quite interested in seeing you grow so here we go:

Eh, this poem left me bored. Sure it's got some interesting metaphors, but in the end I'm left with a sparrow that flew away, and a broken ladder.

Their isn't anything to take away because you didn't take us anywhere, you made us sit and watch instead of trying to chase after that bird, or dig out the flowers to see what's underneath.

As Galerius said,

To make these images great, take those descriptions and run with them.

blackbird12 wrote:the chimes are ladders of glass,
music climbing their rungs
as the sparrow flicks his wings,
hovering breathless in the flowerbox
and cocking his head at our fingerprints
like cobwebs on the window,
mine tangling with the fade of yours.

Hi blackbird12,

One of the primary - and glaring - missteps in this poem is that it follows such a predictable formula throughout. "A goes to B". "The chimes are ladders of glass". "The wind shakes the chimes." "The sparrow unsheathes his wings".

It's lockstep with a boring tone and slights the whole piece. This is an especially tragic failing because the poem, when taken apart into its constituent pieces, is actually not tha bad. You have some good imagery here - "unsheathes its wings", for example. To make these images great, take those descriptions and run with them. So wings are like swords. Good. What about that? How can that further be symbolized aesthetically using the literary device? How does the air - which the wings slice as they pass by - relate to all this?

Work on the poem, it needs you.

Hope that helped,
Galerius

Wow, this was a great read. I don't have any edits to make, but I thought I'd say: The below is my favorite line:

mine tangling with the fade of yours.

Hi there! Awesome poem. Very imaginative. I have to say that I agree with ilyaeelz. I can't exactly pin point what the meaning of the poem was, but it was still very good. There were a few awkward lines, but after a bit of reading out loud I think you'll pick up on those pretty quickly.
Good job.
-UCntCMee

This is no review at all, but I LOVED it. Your poetry is always so great.

Really like this poem! You've put in some creative metaphors without cluttering the poem with them, and stayed focused throughout (one of my issues, heh). Your title's a bit wonky - climbing doesn't seem to be a main focus of the poem; however, I'm not sure that I've understood the poem's meaning. The flow is a bit jagged, what with the occasional odd line break ("music climbing their rungs as"), and lines with end punctuation quite outweighing lines without. Still, that doesn't prevent the imagery from shining through (great lines about the fingerprints).

Great piece, keep writing!

Hi there!! I've never edited a poem before but I love to write them so I thought I'd give it a try on your poem. Here I go!

blackbird12 wrote:The chimes are ladders of glass,
music climbing their rungs as you can either combine this line with the line underneath or take away "as" on this line and add a period at the end.
the sparrow flicks his wings in flight,
hovering sparrows don't hover... breathless in the flowerbox,
cocking his head at the fingerprints,
like cobwebs on the window,
mine tangling with the fade of yours. "tingling with the fate of yours"

the wind shakes the chime’s rungs,
knocks the trumpets of the petunias
and for a moment
these are the only real things—
the way my heart climbed my throat
in five grouped beats, a little awkward here..
the way my hands rose to meet yours, keep this one line - not two
everything aquiver.

the sparrow unsheathes his wings and rises,
and the chimes fall silent,
the flowers stand in wait like pall-bearers,
hollow heads lifting.
I feel a sheet of earth pulled
from under me,
like the rungs of a ladder
snapping at my feet.

The chimes are ladders of glass, Like this bit
music climbing their rungs as remove as
the sparrow flicks her wings at them
in flight, hovering breathless in the flowerbox,
settling in the trumpets of the petunias
and cocking her head at me, at the fingerprints I don't think you need and there
like cobwebs on the glass, mine tangling with
the fade of his.

The wind shakes the chime’s rungs
and knocks the heads of the flowers,
and for a moment Remove one or both and's it crowded the stanza
these are the only real things—
the way my heart
climbed my throat
in five grouped beats,
the way my hands
rose I don't think this needs a new line
to meet his.

The sparrow darts away,
quick as he once did,
and then the chime falls still
with the hush of a precious moment
past.