09-29-2017, 11:44 AM 
	
	
	
		Hey Keith,
I loved how this poem sounded when I read it aloud. I do have some thoughts though:
Cheers,
Richard
	
	
I loved how this poem sounded when I read it aloud. I do have some thoughts though:
(09-22-2017, 11:17 PM)Keith Wrote: Edit 1Overall, I think you have some strong language use and imagery in this poem. I just think you need to ask yourself what you want your purpose to be here. For example, what is the importance of pointing out the conker for the reader? I feel like I might have rambled in parts of this critique, so I hope I was more helpful than rambling.
Prickled and sour sapped
I found you by the roadside,
your fall, split white
on chestnut brown. -I like this image of the conker. The description of the colours make it vivid. My only question is why is the speaker so interested in it? This is sort of a nit-pick point, but I think it's worth thinking about. As well, what does the conker represent for the speaker? Does it have to represent anything for the speaker? I'm rambling a bit, but I hope I'm offering some food for thought.
The ground drowns -I'm a bit unclear if the ground is drowning in falling conkers or the rain.
in a crinkled collapse
as feet shuffle sound -This line made me think of squirrels for some reason.
through wind-cornered clusters.
Rain needles,
sharp as sketch book pencils,
scurry shoppers along,
run for cover, high streets. -I quite like this stanza. The rain metaphor is strong. I'm just a bit unclear on what it has to do with the conker. May be I'm missing something. It wouldn't be the first time.
Blotted damp under a railway arch
I pull up my hood and shudder,
bone deep,
on this top button day. -I like the imagery in this stanza as well. In my opinion it ends the poem with a melancholy tone. Was this your intention? How does the tone in this stanza relate back to the conker? Again, I'm just asking some of these questions to hopefully generate some food for thought.
Original
I picked you from the curb,
prickled and sour sapped,
your fall, split white
on chestnut brown.
The ground drowns
in a crinkled collapse
as feet shuffle sound
through wind-cornered clusters.
Rain needles,
sharp as sketch book pencils.
empty out,
run for cover high streets.
Blotted damp under a railway arch.
I pull my hood up and hide away,
bone deep,
on this top button day.
Cheers,
Richard
Time is the best editor.
	

 

 
