Friendless Center - edit3

[brynmawr1]

Friendless Center


I yearn for characters to orbit me
as sycophants revolve around their kings
portraying duty jeweled with repartee
as Jove has Ganymede, Saturn his rings.   This first stanza speaks of narcissism, for me.  well executed, no pun intended.

I weep for things which cannot love me back–  'weep' throws me some but does invoke some ambiguity which comes and goes for me.  Connecting the conceit of S1 to S2 would help.  After thought, 'me back' is unnecessary
old figurines I own, toys thought to life–  what about adding and 'I' after toys?
and sadly smile at knowing grins I lack  at to with?
on painted faces, mindful as a knife.  not sure about mindful, but like connection to 'knife'. actually maybe cut this line

Inconstant, things I own:  they shall not be  seems like the opposite, but like the line break, seems like a turn away from the material
grave-goods to burn or bury in a tomb;
mute matter, they cannot accompany
my dissolution but outlive my doom.   any other word...to, and, then

You toys, you things I value more than friends–  Another turn at the end, rejecting the rejection to return.  If this is the intent, I think, needs better indication.
help me forget what smiles, and who pretends.  great last two lines though

edit1;

Friendless Friday


I yearn for pleasing minds which orbit earth
as goldfish circle in their crystal bowls
pretending reason, simulating worth,
provoking conversations without souls.

I weep for things which cannot love me back–
old figurines I own, toys dressed as life–
and sadly smile at knowing grins I lack
on painted faces like a cake-top wife.

Inconstant, things I own:  they shall not be
grave-goods to burn or bury in a tomb;
mute matter, they cannot accompany
my dissolution but outlive my doom.

You toys, you things I value more than friends
who might distort my dream with means and ends.

original version;

The wonder of these minds which orbit earth
as goldfish circle in their crystal bowls
defies all majesty, all terms of worth
by its ubiquity, untouched by souls.

I weep for things which cannot love me back–
old figurines I own, toys dressed as lives–
and sadly smile at eager grins I lack
on painted faces false as man contrives.

Inconstant, things I own:  they shall not be
grave goods to burn or bury in a tomb;
mute matter, they cannot accompany
my dissolution but outlive my doom.

You toys, you things, I love you more than time
I waste in dusting you, on tears and rhyme.

Passing through a patch of poet's paralysis... can/should this one be saved?

Hi Duke,
I've made a lot of comments above.  I've tried to indicate my interpretation in the notes above.  To me, it reads as the celebration of, then the rejection of narcissism.  Then a rejection of that.  Take care
bryn