3 hours ago
(9 hours ago)dukealien Wrote: Die-Cut
Life is made of puzzle pieces– I feel like if you're going to start a poem with a universal declarative, it has to be a home run. This one's more like a slow dribbler to short.
some events, new thoughts about them,
memories of things that happened,
schemes and dreams that never did. nice dichotomy, well executed. I was going to accuse "schemes and dreams" of being too cute but actually I think it just works. Maybe because it picks up on a kind of homespun, classical directness of form & philosophy that I associate with that rhetorical tradition.
As each die-cut shape flips over,
future gray to brilliant present,
there’s a moment to consider
where to place it in the past. a pretty forgettable stanza, lots of plain language that mostly fails to elevate its subject. Direct reporting of the speaker's thoughts on the topic. "where to place it in the past" is interesting; I struggle to get much from the rest.
Sometimes it’s a straight-edged border
or a corner setting limits;
mostly it will join a pile, once
judged by color, image, kind. Getting bored now
Then, with many upward-facing,
understanding, meaning, slowly
forms but gaps remain, demanding
search among bits pushed aside. It feels like the speaker is determined to quash any suggestion of imaginative space between signifier and signified. We badly need off the triggering subject, IMO
Often missing pieces turn out
to be, not still face-down, waiting,
but a person met, discarded,
for her color or his shape. Agreed with Busker before reading his comment; was also planning to highlight this figure the moment I got to this stanza. Still plenty of stagey cruft holding it back: first two lines are comparatively uninspired, they do little to challenge my understanding of the images and ideas at hand
In the end, some puzzle-solvers
know beforehand what their final
panorama will portray: they
saw the box-top, read the Book. By now the conceit is well and truly starting to give "I'm tired, boss"
Others will delay that closing
recognition of the picture
they’ve assembled, but it finds them
for no life ends incomplete. Stretching for the universal in an unsatisfying way that seems to have little to do with the preceding philosophical journey
I think the approach to form here is difficult. It strikes me as a bit of a dated mechanism for delivering truth: the extended metaphor that produces a series of didactic generalizations/appeals to the universal. Not very fashionable these days - I'm inclined to admire the decision on that basis alone. But then, I am also afraid that it is no longer fashionable for good reason. I think for this to succeed we need to either feel "holy shit he's serving straight high-octane truth!!" or else it needs to be made personal, or a little weird, or both.
One easily begins to yawn, really. There is not too much evident movement in the poem; the ethos seems well-established after the first stanza or two, and then we kind of rinse and repeat until the end. At which point there is a bit of a grasping reach for a grand gesture.
Rhythm is satisfying. Sound is fine. Image is lacking. Sense is weak, IMO: what do we ultimately say here? Life is uncertain? Life is what you make of it? I have trouble pinpointing much notably sharp or canny insight. Like, my response to the poem's argument is more or less "sure."