Young Writers Society

Dear xanthan,


I hope you appreciate some in-line commentary.


Apple grinds are not filtered out(,)[;]( and) [they]
cling to (the insides of your )capillary walls [inside you],
(speaking )selfless confidence [fill]in[g] your ears
during (the most) wasteland(ish)[-]nights.
It (could )slid[es] off your skin into( a patch of)
snapdragons, blooming love(-lies-) bleeding’s…
(A)[a]s tragic as white rose petals
in a red[-]gloved hand.
But it sits(,) like sweat on (these )summer afternoons,
contagious (on the )[at the] brim of your finger(tip)s,
which handle (and disperse )dampened lust
on (these )adept half-nights that haunt you(r life).
(Flecks of f)[F]ruitful passion dipped (in )saccharine,
(can )you [do] not understand the rush(ing)[ed] roll of
kinetics seeping (under) [into (y)our] veins(?)[.]

(There's a reason why )they(’re) [are] (/) [dipped in red
for a reason.](dipped in red.)



Nay, only for true believers.

Doubtless, some kind of comic book text stimulated this. A lot of stage smoke and thunder courtesy a bottle of spirits of ammonia and a big garbage can.


Good job and good luck,
Brad

Never?! Google T. S. Eliot - look for the Bartleby.Com anthology. His poem "The Wasteland" is very long, at times obscure, and utterly worth all the brain-strain it takes to fully understand it. ^_^ And I know what you mean about a dearth of critiques - though I've really enjoyed a great majority of your poems, at least the ones I've read.

I have no idea who Elliot is. I'll have to look it up. Thanks, though, for the critique. Very useful. I don't get them often enough.

xanthan gum wrote:Apple grinds are not filtered out, and
cling to the insides of you capillary walls,
speaking selfless confidence in your ears
during the most wastelandish nights.

[Bit of Eliot influence, here? Kudos. ^_^]

It could slide off your skin into a patch of
snapdragons, blooming love-lies-bleeding’s…
As tragic as white rose petals
in a red gloved hand.

[For some reason those last two lines forcibly reminded me of Snow White, which I suppose, given the subject, isn't too arbitrary. I'm usually kind of iffy about ellipses in poetry, but I think it works well enough after 'snapdragons...']

But it sits, like sweat on these summer afternoons,
contagious on the brim of your fingertips,
which handle and disperse dampened lust
on these adept half-nights that haunt your life.
Flecks of fruitful passion dipped in saccharine,
can you not understand the rushing roll of
kinetics seeping under veins?

There’s a reason why they’re
dipped in red.