The end of a cigarette is my daughter

[EileenGreay]

'The end of a cigarette is my daughter’

            We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns
    Which wash our feet       like Christ with perfume.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes     which     linger
        At the back of       refrigerators or between the cushions
Of     our old     sofa; they wait for us     to find them and pick them out
              And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding     child. Feeding them on     our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes.

This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
      Whispers       and I can barely breathe because     you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
    Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of     a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.

[heslopian]

'The end of a cigarette is my daughter’

            We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns I love "misted density"; it conveys such silent claustrophobia.
    Which wash our feet       like Christ with perfume. Is this an allusion to Mary Magdelene washing Jesus' feet? Because if so, and even if not, it feels like a weird and extraneous subversion of that story. It sounds like you're mocking Christ, which is fine, but feels off topic.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes     which     linger
        At the back of       refrigerators or between the cushions
Of     our old     sofa; they wait for us     to find them and pick them out
              And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding     child. Some really excellent lines. The specificity of the images is great, creating a real sense of abandoned homes and urban melancholy. Feeding them on     our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes. Another great line; a really subtle, clever way of conveying that standard image of someone dejectedly sighing on a windowpane.

This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
      Whispers       and I can barely breathe because     you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
    Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of     a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. I'd suggest ending here. What follows is just hammering your point home, and "cigarette is my daughter" would be a stronger, more elegant close. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.

Really great stuff, filled with subtle lament, darkness and poisonous warmth. Critique is JMHO. Thank you for the read

[ChristopherSea]

Another superior piece Eileen. This metaphor is well thought out and poignant, if you don’t have an aversion to smoking (I smoked, but quit years ago). The ability to both hold your daughter, while inhaling her essence into your body and bloodstream is so encompassing and brilliant. You pulled off something magical, something we all might wish for if possible. On the other hand, the transient nature of a burning cigarette is tragic is this context and you captured that as well. I may have missed the same point that Heslopian did with ‘like Christ’. The misted density may have anointed your feet with perfume, but if the memories of them were forgotten, then washed is apropos, yet if washed we are left with Christ and perfume again. The lost hope between sofa cushions works better than those behind the baking soda in the fridge for me poetically, but both are very clever. Disappointment coagulating on window panes is potent and I likened it to tar on the lungs of a smoker. The love, angst and loss are well dramatized in your close. I may have worded it differently:

This end, this conclusion, of a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this is the end.
This is the end of me.

Not sure, as it would more than likely have a different meaning. Thank you so much for sharing such passionate work with us!/Chris

[billy]

i'll be blunt

why the spaces in your poetry?
i do admit it kept me longer in the poem.
no constructive feedback apart form saying the end didn't work for me.
unless the narrator is blaming her daughter for their station in life?
the rest of it worked well. i enjoyed the extended metaphor. and the sense of indigence you imparted to the reader through some original images and lines. did you mix your tenses in the first two lines with walked and wash?
thanks for the read,

'The end of a cigarette is my daughter’

            We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns
    Which wash our feet       like Christ with perfume.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes     which     linger
        At the back of       refrigerators or between the cushions
Of     our old     sofa; they wait for us     to find them and pick them out
              And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding     child. Feeding them on     our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes.

This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
      Whispers       and I can barely breathe because     you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
    Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of     a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.

[EileenGreay]

Hi all, thank you so much for your kind and constructive feedback on this. You have certainly given me a lot to think about, especially regarding the close of the poem and the Christ simile in line 3 (upon reading this over, I also think the simile here unnecessary, thank you for picking me up on it).

Billy: a very good question regarding my use of space. I'm of the opinion that each poem is not limited to a single type of existence: each poem exists as a spoken entity, a spatial and visual construct, and a combination of both when we read them inside our heads. I believe that the way we space words, how we experiment with physical distance, blank space, stanza breaks, is integral to our understanding of how poems function. Indeed, this isn't limited to post-1900 poetry in the modern or postmodern traditions - consider the sonnet forms which are so popular on this forum. Our engagement with them is undeniably visual before it is textual - we see the fourteen line shape and make all sorts of assumptions before we've even read the first line. In the sonnet, shape carries connotations of tradition (Milton, Spenser, Shakespeare, Petrarch etc) and suggests the nature of the poem we're to be reading (even if the poet uses this these visual assumptions to betray or mislead the reader). Indeed, I often wonder whether it is a coincidence sonnets are so connected to commemoration (for example, Shakespeare's wonderful sonnets on textual immortality), and that their visual shape might be likened to that of a tombstone...but this might be a mad little musing. For reasons such as this, I find the visual aspect of poetry incredibly important - it is another palette available for us poets to add nuance and hint at references. Just my opinion, and I completely understand that not everyone finds blank space as exciting as I do...!

Also, yes, the tenses are mixed in the first few lines, but this is grammatically fine, I think: 'which wash our feet' is part of a relative clause, so adding a new tense is fine, and the opening line does not presuppose that the verb has been terminated - 'we have walked so far' doesn't mean we have stopped.

Thank you for your comments, they have been so helpful.

[billy]

thanks for the reply (i see what you mean about the tense), and for the explanation about the spaces. which leads me to another question. are they arbitrary or do you give thought as to where you use them.

[EileenGreay]

thanks for the reply (i see what you mean about the tense), and for the explanation about the spaces. which leads me to another question. are they arbitrary or do you give thought as to where you use them.

I do indeed give thought as to where I use them, but the reason behind each use is often different, and I believe the effect to often be different (just as the effects of enjambment are incredibly varied). Just to give a few examples from this poem, I intended for the space between 'Which wash our feet' and 'like Christ with perfume' to suggest a distance - perhaps an implausibility - between tenor and vehicle. However, the spaces around 'which linger' enact a process of lingering as the blank space extends. Of course, what the reader receives from the spaces may be completely different to what I intend them to represent - and every reading or interpretation is as valid as mine.

I hope that goes somewhere towards explaining my use of space. Do let me know if you have any more queries - I understand that it's an aspect of writing which to some seems unnecessary, but I find it integral to my attempts to express myself.

[billy]

i ask only for enlightenment

it's not something i think i'm capable of but only because my brain isn't wired up in such a creative way. it's good that you give it thought :J:

[tectak]

'The end of a cigarette is my daughter’

            We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns
    Which wash our feet       like Christ with perfume.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes     which     linger
        At the back of       refrigerators or between the cushions
Of     our old     sofa; they wait for us     to find them and pick them out
              And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding     child. Feeding them on     our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes.

This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
      Whispers       and I can barely breathe because     you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
    Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of     a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.

Hi eileen
I have read the posts on this piece. I have read your responses. I like the piece, I like your defence/explanation of what are, frankly, affectations. There is a danger that the excellence if your word skills will become swamped by your idiosyncrasies. I accept that you get some unimaginable high from observably erratic ( though you would say essential) spaces and dashes and hyphens and line breaks and enjambments and verse shape you must be aware that ALL of these devices are subject to crit and comment on this board.
So...assuming you will not vanish in a fit of pique and blue funk, I can only say that I rewrote your whole piece with conventional (perish the thought) form and format...and bugger me, it was STILL excellent. The difference is, I could not fault it. So thanks for your imperfections...it made me feel good.
Best,
tectak

[EileenGreay]

'The end of a cigarette is my daughter’

            We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns
    Which wash our feet       like Christ with perfume.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes     which     linger
        At the back of       refrigerators or between the cushions
Of     our old     sofa; they wait for us     to find them and pick them out
              And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding     child. Feeding them on     our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes.

This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
      Whispers       and I can barely breathe because     you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
    Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of     a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.

Hi eileen
I have read the posts on this piece. I have read your responses. I like the piece, I like your defence/explanation of what are, frankly, affectations. There is a danger that the excellence if your word skills will become swamped by your idiosyncrasies. I accept that you get some unimaginable high from observably erratic ( though you would say essential) spaces and dashes and hyphens and line breaks and enjambments and verse shape you must be aware that ALL of these devices are subject to crit and comment on this board.
So...assuming you will not vanish in a fit of pique and blue funk, I can only say that I rewrote your whole piece with conventional (perish the thought) form and format...and bugger me, it was STILL excellent. The difference is, I could not fault it. So thanks for your imperfections...it made me feel good.
Best,
tectak

Thank you for your response, tectak. Don't worry, I will not be vanishing in a fit of pique.

You have given me much food for thought - perhaps I will experiment with more conventional formatting and see if such a method works for me. I am sure you will accept, however, that opinions on the use of unconventional formatting are very subjective - I imagine, for example, that you are not a fan of the poetry of E E Cummings, whereas I find his work to be superb (apologies if this assumption is untrue - you may find immense unity in Cummings' use of form and format).

While our opinions on the use of space may differ, your response and opinions are, of course, valid and well-reasoned, and I'm grateful for the time you have taken to consider my work.

Very best,
Eileen

[ChristopherSea]

'Buffalo Bill's defunct' for me too Eileen 'onetwothree' (pretty sad when this is all I can quote from the poem). Many lyrical poets like the meter and line breaks alone to dictate word passage. It is informative to see how the poet wants us to read their poem and you make that easy. However, it is nice to know that your poem is equally compelling in a linear format. I cannot use the html method of spacing well enough to bother. I have also been softly bashed for a dash here, so I am going without. Emily Dickinson should slap me from the grave!