Rats (Move it to Miscellaneous)

[Brownlie]

We used to shake their dried up shit pebbles off of a fake Christmas tree we hauled out every year. When one got in my room I became obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline, as a swift phantom gliding across the floor. Then I saw him in the morning hopping onto my desk and scavenging the crumbs of food that fell from my mouth. Maybe the stench from all the piled up fast food wrappers lured him in.
I caught him inside of a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave. Against my fear I sprang from my bed and frantically sealed him in. Immediately I heard rapid scratching sounds. I carried the creature in the printer and deposited him in the front lawn.
Later, I read that they could find their ways back home and every sound became a mouse. I followed the dusty carpet besides the walls looking for grey grease trails that I read mice would leave as they dragged their balls across the floor.
I went to jiffy lube and there was shit and ripped up fabric used for nesting material in my air filter.
I must have been breathing it in every time I turned on the A.C.
At one point, every creak was a potential mouse. At night I imagined a whole city of them in the walls. Nests and nests and each nest containing one male amidst a brood of females.
I would spy loose wires and construe that it was one of their hairless tails which are used to help them balance.
I smeared too much peanut butter on the traps.
I wore a glove because my father told me they can smell you’re scent if you handle a trap with your bare hands.
My fingers trembled as I set the traps
The first trap probably took me an hour.
When one was finally set, I carefully carried it on my palm and set it against the wall in my room.
We only ever caught mice in the attic.
Most of the time they were dead and stiff before we carried them to the garbage
But one time I saw one die.
My father and I had been watching T.V. and gradually became suspicious of a rustling we heard from the attic. I saw a pregnant mouse writhing with a broken spine. I knew the rustling we heard was this creature’s suffering. The new life brewing in its stomach seemed like a grotesque goiter.
A type of panic that grabs you unexpectedly seized me while my father cracked the creature’s skull with the butt of a flashlight.
We wouldn’t talk about this Mouse. I knew the tears I wanted to spill showed my guilt and innocence.

[Magpie]

Hi Brownlie,
This is an excellent piece of prose, with some really good details in it.
Do you want to make it more poetic? I nearly asked why it was called rats there, but thank God I manage to get it just in time.
I really do think that it stands up as a very well executed prose piece, but then it comes down to the age old argument of what is prose and what is poetry?
Was it a rhetorical question? it's quite early in the morning for me to be in serious critique.
I have to run.

[tectak]

We used to shake their dried up shit pebbles off of a fake Christmas tree we hauled out every year. When one got in my room I became obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline, as a swift phantom gliding across the floor. Then I saw him in the morning hopping onto my desk and scavenging the crumbs of food that fell from my mouth. Maybe the stench from all the piled up fast food wrappers lured him in.
I caught him inside of a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave. Against my fear I sprang from my bed and frantically sealed him in. Immediately I heard rapid scratching sounds. I carried the creature in the printer and deposited him in the front lawn.
Later, I read that they could find their ways back home and every sound became a mouse. I followed the dusty carpet besides the walls looking for grey grease trails that I read mice would leave as they dragged their balls across the floor.
I went to jiffy lube and there was shit and ripped up fabric used for nesting material in my air filter.
I must have been breathing it in every time I turned on the A.C.
At one point, every creak was a potential mouse. At night I imagined a whole city of them in the walls. Nests and nests and each nest containing one male amidst a brood of females.
I would spy loose wires and construe that it was one of their hairless tails which are used to help them balance.
I smeared too much peanut butter on the traps.
I wore a glove because my father told me they can smell you’re scent if you handle a trap with your bare hands.
My fingers trembled as I set the traps
The first trap probably took me an hour.
When one was finally set, I carefully carried it on my palm and set it against the wall in my room.
We only ever caught mice in the attic.
Most of the time they were dead and stiff before we carried them to the garbage
But one time I saw one die.
My father and I had been watching T.V. and gradually became suspicious of a rustling we heard from the attic. I saw a pregnant mouse writhing with a broken spine. I knew the rustling we heard was this creature’s suffering. The new life brewing in its stomach seemed like a grotesque goiter.
A type of panic that grabs you unexpectedly seized me while my father cracked the creature’s skull with the butt of a flashlight.
We wouldn’t talk about this Mouse. I knew the tears I wanted to spill showed my guilt and innocence.

Hi brownlie,
Not poetry and you know it. Make it poetic? Not me. That's your job. Anyway, the whole thing is a cliche in my house Needs reposting in another forum.
Best,
tectak

[Brownlie]

I regret not posting it in the miscellaneous I would not be offended if it were moved I am up late and tired. It got read pretty quick though so it seems other people are bored. Thank you for reading.

[cidermaid]

Hi Brownlie,
also read this through and thought it was a nicely descriptive piece of prose that (for me) brought back plenty of shared memories. I thought it was good, but was not sure what it was you wanted from the crit; but I see the laird of the serious has spoken and once the thumb has been raised or lowered no other comment is required, except those of humble confessions of wrongness, regret and apology. (which I see you have also attended to - so all is right with the world and it is spinning so much better this morning ).

[tectak]

Hi Brownlie,
also read this through and thought it was a nicely descriptive piece of prose that (for me) brought back plenty of shared memories. I thought it was good, but was not sure what it was you wanted from the crit; but I see the laird of the serious has spoken and once the thumb has been raised or lowered no other comment is required, except those of humble confessions of wrongness, regret and apology. (which I see you have also attended to - so all is right with the world and it is spinning so much better this morning ).

Hey cider, I've lost 2stone since November so don't call me lard! Oh...sorry misread.
Best,
tectak

[milo]

We used to shake their dried up shit pebbles off of a fake Christmas tree we hauled out every year. When one got in my room I became obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline, as a swift phantom gliding across the floor. Then I saw him in the morning hopping onto my desk and scavenging the crumbs of food that fell from my mouth. Maybe the stench from all the piled up fast food wrappers lured him in.
I caught him inside of a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave. Against my fear I sprang from my bed and frantically sealed him in. Immediately I heard rapid scratching sounds. I carried the creature in the printer and deposited him in the front lawn.
Later, I read that they could find their ways back home and every sound became a mouse. I followed the dusty carpet besides the walls looking for grey grease trails that I read mice would leave as they dragged their balls across the floor.
I went to jiffy lube and there was shit and ripped up fabric used for nesting material in my air filter.
I must have been breathing it in every time I turned on the A.C.
At one point, every creak was a potential mouse. At night I imagined a whole city of them in the walls. Nests and nests and each nest containing one male amidst a brood of females.
I would spy loose wires and construe that it was one of their hairless tails which are used to help them balance.
I smeared too much peanut butter on the traps.
I wore a glove because my father told me they can smell you’re scent if you handle a trap with your bare hands.
My fingers trembled as I set the traps
The first trap probably took me an hour.
When one was finally set, I carefully carried it on my palm and set it against the wall in my room.
We only ever caught mice in the attic.
Most of the time they were dead and stiff before we carried them to the garbage
But one time I saw one die.
My father and I had been watching T.V. and gradually became suspicious of a rustling we heard from the attic. I saw a pregnant mouse writhing with a broken spine. I knew the rustling we heard was this creature’s suffering. The new life brewing in its stomach seemed like a grotesque goiter.
A type of panic that grabs you unexpectedly seized me while my father cracked the creature’s skull with the butt of a flashlight.
We wouldn’t talk about this Mouse. I knew the tears I wanted to spill showed my guilt and innocence.

I could take a shot at /making/ it poetic if you want, I am easily amused.

[Brownlie]

We used to shake their dried up shit pebbles off of a fake Christmas tree we hauled out every year. When one got in my room I became obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline, as a swift phantom gliding across the floor. Then I saw him in the morning hopping onto my desk and scavenging the crumbs of food that fell from my mouth. Maybe the stench from all the piled up fast food wrappers lured him in.
I caught him inside of a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave. Against my fear I sprang from my bed and frantically sealed him in. Immediately I heard rapid scratching sounds. I carried the creature in the printer and deposited him in the front lawn.
Later, I read that they could find their ways back home and every sound became a mouse. I followed the dusty carpet besides the walls looking for grey grease trails that I read mice would leave as they dragged their balls across the floor.
I went to jiffy lube and there was shit and ripped up fabric used for nesting material in my air filter.
I must have been breathing it in every time I turned on the A.C.
At one point, every creak was a potential mouse. At night I imagined a whole city of them in the walls. Nests and nests and each nest containing one male amidst a brood of females.
I would spy loose wires and construe that it was one of their hairless tails which are used to help them balance.
I smeared too much peanut butter on the traps.
I wore a glove because my father told me they can smell you’re scent if you handle a trap with your bare hands.
My fingers trembled as I set the traps
The first trap probably took me an hour.
When one was finally set, I carefully carried it on my palm and set it against the wall in my room.
We only ever caught mice in the attic.
Most of the time they were dead and stiff before we carried them to the garbage
But one time I saw one die.
My father and I had been watching T.V. and gradually became suspicious of a rustling we heard from the attic. I saw a pregnant mouse writhing with a broken spine. I knew the rustling we heard was this creature’s suffering. The new life brewing in its stomach seemed like a grotesque goiter.
A type of panic that grabs you unexpectedly seized me while my father cracked the creature’s skull with the butt of a flashlight.
We wouldn’t talk about this Mouse. I knew the tears I wanted to spill showed my guilt and innocence.

I could take a shot at /making/ it poetic if you want, I am easily amused.

I would like to see what you can do with it

[billy]

i enjoyed the read. i think this is the right place for it. what i like about it is that it has a feel or real about it. though it may be, it doesn't feel contrived.

[milo]

( I would like to note in advance that the author requested this, please do not scold me at this time)

I would probably /start/ the revision process like this:


Rats

We shook their dried up shit pebbles
from a fake Christmas tree each year.
When one got in my room I became
obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline -
a phantom gliding across the floor.

He hopped onto my desk, scavenging
the crumbs that fell from my mouth,
lured by the smell of fast food wrappers.

I caught him
in a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave.
Fighting fear, I sprang from my bed and sealed
him in. I heard the frantic scratching
of his gripless claws as I carried
him imprisoned out and left him on the lawn.

When I heard
that they could find their ways
back home, every tick became
a claw-scritch, every whisper
was the soundless brush of whiskers’
gentle wisp along the walls. I followed
the dusty carpet’s frayed edge
looking for the grey grease trails that mice might leave.

When I went
to get my oil changed, they found shit
and ripped up fabric used as nesting jammed
up in my air filter. Every breath I took was poisoned.

There came a point when every crick or creak
and every settling squeak was evidence
of rodent swarms behind the walls.
I imagined whole cities of them. Nests and nests
and each nest containing just one male amidst a brood
of females. If I spied loose wires I would see their hairless
tails. I smeared fresh traps thick
with peanut butter and wore gloves
to hide my scent. My fingers trembled
as I set each one.

The first one took an hour.
I palmed it carefully and placed it
against my bedroom wall.
We only caught mice in the attic,
dead and stiff.

Once, I saw one die. Watching T. V.
with my father I was distracted by a rustling
from the attic. I saw a mouse there,
writhing, pregnant, fighting her broken spine.
New life brewed like a grotesque
goiter in her belly. Panic gripped me
as my father cracked the creature’s skull
with a flashlight. We didn’t talk
about this mouse. I knew
the tears would spill.

[Brownlie]

( I would like to note in advance that the author requested this, please do not scold me at this time)

I would probably /start/ the revision process like this:


Rats

We shook their dried up shit pebbles
from a fake Christmas tree each year.
When one got in my room I became
obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline -
a phantom gliding across the floor.

He hopped onto my desk, scavenging
the crumbs that fell from my mouth,
lured by the smell of fast food wrappers.

I caught him
in a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave.
Fighting fear, I sprang from my bed and sealed
him in. I heard the frantic scratching
of his gripless claws as I carried -- I like your edition here 'gripless claws' is great.
him imprisoned out and left him on the lawn. -- I also like the word imprisoned

When I heard
that they could find their ways
back home, every tick became
a claw-scritch, every whisper
was the soundless brush of whiskers’ --This is cool the rhyme works in multiple ways
gentle wisp along the walls. I followed
the dusty carpet’s frayed edge
looking for the grey grease trails that mice might leave.

When I went
to get my oil changed, they found shit
and ripped up fabric used as nesting jammed
up in my air filter. Every breath I took was poisoned.

There came a point when every crick or creak
and every settling squeak was evidence -- creak and squeak adds pleasurable sound
of rodent swarms behind the walls.
I imagined whole cities of them. Nests and nests
and each nest containing just one male amidst a brood
of females. If I spied loose wires I would see their hairless
tails. I smeared fresh traps thick
with peanut butter and wore gloves
to hide my scent. My fingers trembled
as I set each one.

The first one took an hour.
I palmed it carefully and placed it
against my bedroom wall.
We only caught mice in the attic,
dead and stiff.

Once, I saw one die. Watching T. V.
with my father I was distracted by a rustling
from the attic. I saw a mouse there,
writhing, pregnant, fighting her broken spine.
New life brewed like a grotesque
goiter in her belly. Panic gripped me
as my father cracked the creature’s skull
with a flashlight. We didn’t talk
about this mouse. I knew
the tears would spill. -- Removing the abstraction was a good move but the epiphany I was going for dealt with my fear of Rats and my efforts to destroy them. When I faced one dying I couldn't bear to see its suffering. Its sort of like how people eat lobsters but they never see them boiling alive. I was innocent because I had never seen many scenes of pain and the dying mouse caught me by a surprisingly crippling emotion. I was guilty because I contributed to the suffering of the mouse, but that doesn't mean you have to use my epiphany.


All in all I think you did a great job. Some of the lines and words you added were some of the best. Thanks for working with it. My opinion is biased but I think you're a skilled poet. Thanks again, I thoroughly enjoyed your modifications.

[milo]

( I would like to note in advance that the author requested this, please do not scold me at this time)

I would probably /start/ the revision process like this:


Rats

We shook their dried up shit pebbles
from a fake Christmas tree each year.
When one got in my room I became
obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline -
a phantom gliding across the floor.

He hopped onto my desk, scavenging
the crumbs that fell from my mouth,
lured by the smell of fast food wrappers.

I caught him
in a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave.
Fighting fear, I sprang from my bed and sealed
him in. I heard the frantic scratching
of his gripless claws as I carried -- I like your edition here 'gripless claws' is great.
him imprisoned out and left him on the lawn. -- I also like the word imprisoned

When I heard
that they could find their ways
back home, every tick became
a claw-scritch, every whisper
was the soundless brush of whiskers’ --This is cool the rhyme works in multiple ways
gentle wisp along the walls. I followed
the dusty carpet’s frayed edge
looking for the grey grease trails that mice might leave.

When I went
to get my oil changed, they found shit
and ripped up fabric used as nesting jammed
up in my air filter. Every breath I took was poisoned.

There came a point when every crick or creak
and every settling squeak was evidence -- creak and squeak adds pleasurable sound
of rodent swarms behind the walls.
I imagined whole cities of them. Nests and nests
and each nest containing just one male amidst a brood
of females. If I spied loose wires I would see their hairless
tails. I smeared fresh traps thick
with peanut butter and wore gloves
to hide my scent. My fingers trembled
as I set each one.

The first one took an hour.
I palmed it carefully and placed it
against my bedroom wall.
We only caught mice in the attic,
dead and stiff.

Once, I saw one die. Watching T. V.
with my father I was distracted by a rustling
from the attic. I saw a mouse there,
writhing, pregnant, fighting her broken spine.
New life brewed like a grotesque
goiter in her belly. Panic gripped me
as my father cracked the creature’s skull
with a flashlight. We didn’t talk
about this mouse. I knew
the tears would spill. -- Removing the abstraction was a good move but the epiphany I was going for dealt with my fear of Rats and my efforts to destroy them. When I faced one dying I couldn't bear to see its suffering. Its sort of like how people eat lobsters but they never see them boiling alive. I was innocent because I had never seen many scenes of pain and the dying mouse caught me by a surprisingly crippling emotion. I was guilty because I contributed to the suffering of the mouse, but that doesn't mean you have to use my epiphany.

Well, it is your poem so keep what you want and throw away the rest. I am of the opinion that a writer should report what 'happened' and let the reader figure out the epiphany. I think the narrator crying at the death of the pregnant mouse makes the guilt/innocence obvious, but then again, I read the original.

All in all I think you did a great job. Some of the lines and words you added were some of the best. Thanks for working with it. My opinion is biased but I think you're a skilled poet. Thanks again, I thoroughly enjoyed your modifications.

I am glad you liked the edit. I would think you would use it and start the revision process or at least use the thoughts in the revision process.

[rayheinrich]

I prefer the personal feel of the original write:
The horror of war, right in my attic, with me committing the atrocities.

Poem? Prose? Maybe it's a strawberry milkshake?



Quibbling over pigeonholes is a distraction from this writing's painful content.
Though, considering the gravity of it's content, this is probably a form of
psychological denial by trivialization. It's like viewing a movie of an execution
and arguing over whether it was recorded on 'film' or 'video'.

Or as Michael McNeilley said:

(Answering question from audience)
"... yes, that's one of the differences between science and art.
In art, time spent categorizing is time spent blind. ... In art criticism?
Of course, but it's neither science nor art."

[Brownlie]

I prefer the personal feel of the original write:
The horror of war, right in my attic, with me committing the atrocities.

Poem? Prose? Maybe it's a strawberry milkshake?



Quibbling over pigeonholes is a distraction from this writing's painful content.
Though, considering the gravity of it's content, this is probably a form of
psychological denial by trivialization. It's like viewing a movie of an execution
and arguing over whether it was recorded on 'film' or 'video'.

Or as Michael McNeilley said:

(Answering question from audience)
"... yes, that's one of the differences between science and art.
In art, time spent categorizing is time spent blind. ... In art criticism?
Of course, but it's neither science nor art."

This whole story about rats could be a metaphor about war
The way people are afraid of terrorists and communists so they pay taxes and curse the axis of evil, but what would they say if they saw a man die? They would be partially to blame...

[rayheinrich]

This whole story about rats could be a metaphor about war
The way people are afraid of terrorists and communists so they pay taxes and curse the axis of evil, but what would they say if they saw a man die? They would be partially to blame...

This phrase:

"I saw a pregnant mouse writhing with a broken spine."

Is more than enough, when taken literally, to burn our collective (and individual) soul.
As metaphor it's interpretations are both terrifying and uncountable.


P.S. And yes, the 'terrorist' ploy of creating an endless war
to gain money, power, and limit civil liberties is even more
efficient than promoting the fear of 'communists' in the
'cold war'.

War is peace.
Freedom is slavery.
Ignorance is strength.

(Orwell)

[Magpie]

Hi Brownlie,
This is an excellent piece of prose, with some really good details in it.
Do you want to make it more poetic? I nearly asked why it was called rats there, but thank God I manage to get it just in time.
I really do think that it stands up as a very well executed prose piece, but then it comes down to the age old argument of what is prose and what is poetry?
Was it a rhetorical question? it's quite early in the morning for me to be in serious critique.
I have to run.

Hi Brownlie,
I've been meaning to comment on this again and I really do want to reiterate what I said before when I first commented on it, (well not the bit about it being too early in the morning) I've just read it again and it had just as much effect on me now as what it did two days ago. I think sometimes when people write things quite quickly or are in a state tiredness like what you said you were when you wrote this, then it sometimes helps us by stopping us from thinking too much and using the intellect to edit as we go along.
I really like this piece and I hope you don't intend to disregard it, because if you do I would have to adopt it and I don't have a lot of room as it is.
One more thing, I know my lifestyle is a bit mad and I use the internet at all crazy different times of the day, I'm used to it, but it seemed that without fail for about 4 days every time I logged on you were also logged on, you're a trooper. You have put a lot of time in commenting on a lot of poems and I for one appreciate it.
Cheers
AR

[Brownlie]

Hi Brownlie,
This is an excellent piece of prose, with some really good details in it.
Do you want to make it more poetic? I nearly asked why it was called rats there, but thank God I manage to get it just in time.
I really do think that it stands up as a very well executed prose piece, but then it comes down to the age old argument of what is prose and what is poetry?
Was it a rhetorical question? it's quite early in the morning for me to be in serious critique.
I have to run.

Hi Brownlie,
I've been meaning to comment on this again and I really do want to reiterate what I said before when I first commented on it, (well not the bit about it being too early in the morning) I've just read it again and it had just as much effect on me now as what it did two days ago. I think sometimes when people write things quite quickly or are in a state tiredness like what you said you were when you wrote this, then it sometimes helps us by stopping us from thinking too much and using the intellect to edit as we go along.
I really like this piece and I hope you don't intend to disregard it, because if you do I would have to adopt it and I don't have a lot of room as it is.
One more thing, I know my lifestyle is a bit mad and I use the internet at all crazy different times of the day, I'm used to it, but it seemed that without fail for about 4 days every time I logged on you were also logged on, you're a trooper. You have put a lot of time in commenting on a lot of poems and I for one appreciate it.
Cheers
AR

You're very kind I often find that when people share their writing it brings out special things in people. ><