The Rabbit God - v2

[jeremyyoung]

The Rabbit God
The sun sits high past the noontime,
the flat land, new mown,
ambles away to the river.
And, in the last field before the railway lines
I lean against the stake of the barbed wire fence
and watch rabbits.

He is two months younger than I;
taller, more willing to fight,
though maybe my equal in strength.
We have just had a wheelie competition,
in the dust of the abandoned road,
which runs arrow straight over the crossing.
Our brown-berry legs,
in short trousers,
carry the scars of play,
in these dying days of the summer holiday.

He tells me to wait outside:
I kick stones:
he re-appears with the gun.
I am nervous.
He tells me it is fine,
that his parents won't mind.
And, anyway, they are both at work.
The gun is nearly as tall as me.
And as he pulls the trigger,
it nearly knocks him backwards:
though he says it is only a 410,
and he's fired bigger.

The rabbit looks shocked.
One moment it is chasing its friend's tail
the next it is moving sideways,
then backwards
then looping into the air.
The field which moments earlier
had been dotted with grey dancing,
lies fallow and still
a sea of watching eyes.

It is larger than I imagine.
'A female,' he tells me, laughing,
squeezing the guts,
gushing out a yellow stream.
I tell him to stop,
sensing desecration,
but he says you have to do it.
He breaks the gun, and casually carries it at the hip
holding the now cleaned doe
by the ears.

The last time I was in this garden,
we used a catapult
to test the parachute of his Action Man.
And, I think of this
as he slits the rabbit from pelvis to neck.
The torn flesh and purple innards
force me to retreat to the corner of the house.
When I peer around the wall,
in response to his urging,
I see his fingers enter the cut,
hook the skin,
pull the hind legs back:
with a deft cracking of bones.
It comes off in one piece:
the skin from the meat,
like the sound of a wet sandcastle being turned out.

[shemthepenman]

hello,
and damn you for posting this in a critical forum, because all I want to really say is, it is great. However, rules is rules, and I don't want to go the way of the rabbit; so here it goes.

'he tells me to wait outside,
i kick stones...' I think maybe a full stop after 'outside'.

I always thought it was berry-brown not brown-berry; maybe wrong, though.

er... struggling now... I suppose... that's about it for the negatives.

on the positive side, it is all there. metaphor, layers, blood and guts, all that good stuff. Seriously, it would be pointless trying to go through everything I like about this poem; it would have to be an essay or something. But, just the physicality of it, it plugs into the nervous system and folds in like layers of lead. A truly great piece. And incredibly inspiring. thanks.

[jeremyyoung]

I wasn't sure about Brown-berry, it's not a phrase I use often. My father used to say 'brown as a berry' so I put the brown first.

Thank you for your kind words.

[shemthepenman]

to be fair, i have only heard one person use this phrase from oxford university studying english and just assumed he knew what he was talking about. it's only a small thing in any case. and to be honest, i think i like brown-berry better because for some reason berry brown sounds a bit comical and not in keeping with the poem.

just bought your book by the way, looking forward to reading it.

[jeremyyoung]

thank you.

[heslopian]

The Rabbit God
The sun sits high past the noontime, This is a clever way of conveying an afternoon, but it feels a bit too clever in an artificial way. Maybe it's just me, but this first line drew me out of the poem somewhat.
the flat land, new mown,
ambles away to the river. Good line. A subtle and effective personification.
And, in the last field before the railway lines
I lean against the stake of the barbed wire fence
and watch rabbits. Also very good. Clear, straightforward, unsentimental.

The year before the roadsides had been littered
with the blinded debris of mixi. Googled "mixi", and apparently it's the name of a Japanese social networking site, which doesn't make a lick of sense in the context of this line. Maybe someone's explained it in the comments (which I make a point of not reading before writing my own.)


He Who? is two months younger than I;
taller, more willing to fight,
though maybe my equal in strength. Strong characterisation here. Very show-not-tell, which is of course great. We get the impression that the other is younger and more naive than the narrator, without needing to be beaten senseless with the info.
We have Given the conversational tone thus far, "we have" as opposed to "we've" feels a touch formal. just had a wheelie competition,
in the dust of the abandoned road,
which runs arrow straight over the crossing.
Our brown-berry legs, "Brown-berry" is an excellent expression.
in short trousers,
carry the scars of play,
in these dying days of the summer holiday.

He tells me to wait outside,
I kick stones:
he re-appears with the gun.
I am nervous.
He tells me it is fine, Again, "it is" is a bit formal.
that his parents won't mind.
And, anyway, they are I'll stop reiterating my issue with the formality from here on in, as this is "mild" critique, not "feel free to annoy the shit out of people, Jack, you douche" critique both at work.
The gun is nearly as tall as me.
And as he pulls the trigger,
it nearly knocks him backwards:
though he says it is only a 4/10, I like the use of esoteric detail here. Some might complain they're left out of the loop regarding what a "4/10" is, but a bit of esoterica sprinkled here and there can boost a poem's authenticity, I think.
and he's fired bigger.

The rabbit looks shocked. This rabbit appears rather suddenly. I didn't even know what the kid was firing at beforehand. This isn't necessarily a fault, however. It startled me, and not in a bad way.
One moment it was chasing it's "its" when possessive. Sorry, my inner grammar Nazi can't let that slide friend's tail
the next it is moving sideways,
then backwards
then looping into the air.
The field which moments earlier
had been dotted with grey dancing,
lies fallow and still
a sea of watching eyes. I'm not sure who exactly these eyes belong to, but otherwise the latter half of this verse is poignant and disturbing, conveying its horror through small details as opposed to grand gruesome gestures.

It is larger than I imagine.
'A female,' he tells me, laughing,
squeezing the guts,
gushing out a yellow stream. Perfect descent into the gory stuff, perfectly handled. The objectivity is what's haunting.
I tell him to stop,
sensing desecration, Great line.
but he says you have to do it.
He breaks the gun, and casually carries it on the hip
holding the now cleaned doe Hang on, isn't a doe a female deer?
by the ears.

The last time I was in this garden,
we used a catapult
to test the parachute of his Action Man.
And, I think of this
as he slits the rabbit from pelvis to neck. Brilliant. The switch from innocent fun with Action Man to horror territory is sudden, clear and jolting.
The torn flesh and purple innards
force me to retreat to the corner of the house.
When I peer around the wall,
in response to his urging,
I see his fingers enter the cut,
hook the skin,
pull the hind legs back:
with a deft cracking of bones.
It comes off in one piece:
the skin from the meat,
like the sound of a wet sandcastle being turned out. Beautifully disgusting analogy.

I really really like this poem. It does one of my favourite things a poem can do: create a scene of dreamy Natural beauty, then foreground it with horror. It's like what Ted Hughes did in his crow and hawk poems; a lot of his nature poems, in fact. Critique is JMHO, and thank you for the deeply unsettling read

[shemthepenman]

myxomatosis = mixi

[jeremyyoung]

Thanks for the feedback.

In the opening line I was trying to convey that it was a hot early afternoon, and the size of a fenland sky, but I take on board your comment that there is a tricksyness about it.

Mixi, refers to Myxomatosis. The poem is set in the 1970's, when there was an outbreak of the disease that people feared, and farmers cheered, would wipe out the rabbit population. It was a bit gruesome really, the roads were littered with rabbits who had gone blind and run into the traffic. I toyed with not including the detail, as it is quite obscure, but it places the poem, and it contrasts what is to happen with the Peter Rabbit anthropomorphism of the previous year.

I take on board your issues with the formality. But it is formal. Children are. And when it comes to the gun and shooting the rabbit, I don't want to do it.

I concede to your grammar Nazi, and obey orders to change to 'its'.

It's bucks and does for rabbits.

I was asking for JYHO, so thank you.

[heslopian]

myxomatosis = mixi

In the opening line I was trying to convey that it was a hot early afternoon, and the size of a fenland sky, but I take on board your Mixi, refers to Myxomatosis. The poem is set in the 1970's, when there was an outbreak of the disease that people feared, and farmers cheered, would wipe out the rabbit population. It was a bit gruesome really, the roads were littered with rabbits who had gone blind and run into the traffic. I toyed with not including the detail, as it is quite obscure, but it places the poem, and it contrasts what is to happen with the Peter Rabbit anthropomorphism of the previous year.

...

It's bucks and does for rabbits.

Thanks for enlightening me! I wasn't aware of that abbreviation for myxomatosis (obviously).

[ellajam]

Hi, Jeremy, I keep reading hoping to find something to say that might be of use to you, but I'm coming up pretty empty, good for you.

I love how it remains vivid and in the moment. Really well done, here are a few notes.

The Rabbit God
The sun sits high past the noontime,
the flat land, new mown, I keep thinking newly, but "new mown" is interesting
ambles away to the river.
And, in the last field before the railway lines
I lean against the stake of the barbed wire fence
and watch rabbits.

The year before the roadsides had been littered
with the blinded debris of mixi. My google landed on mixi being british slang for mixer, I pictured rabbits in a blender, the disease makes much more sense. You may want to consider using the full word.

He is two months younger than I; The undefined he stopped me at first, I'm used to it now.
taller, more willing to fight, great, deep description in these lines.
though maybe my equal in strength.
We have just had a wheelie competition,
in the dust of the abandoned road,
which runs arrow straight over the crossing.
Our brown-berry legs, I could see those skinny tanned legs with the lighter scratches and scabs, well done.
in short trousers,
carry the scars of play,
in these dying days of the summer holiday.

He tells me to wait outside,
I kick stones:
he re-appears with the gun.
I am nervous.
He tells me it is fine,
that his parents won't mind.
And, anyway, they are both at work.
The gun is nearly as tall as me.
And as he pulls the trigger,
it nearly knocks him backwards:
though he says it is only a 4/10,
and he's fired bigger. This stanza terrified me, I was relieved when it was the rabbit shot.

The rabbit looks shocked.
One moment it was chasing it's friend's tail
the next it is moving sideways,
then backwards
then looping into the air.
The field which moments earlier
had been dotted with grey dancing,
lies fallow and still
a sea of watching eyes. This stanza is a great frozen moment.

It is larger than I imagine.
'A female,' he tells me, laughing,
squeezing the guts,
gushing out a yellow stream.
I tell him to stop,
sensing desecration,
but he says you have to do it.
He breaks the gun, and casually carries it on the hip
holding the now cleaned doe
by the ears.

The last time I was in this garden, I love this example of innocence lost.
we used a catapult
to test the parachute of his Action Man.
And, I think of this
as he slits the rabbit from pelvis to neck.
The torn flesh and purple innards
force me to retreat to the corner of the house.
When I peer around the wall,
in response to his urging,
I see his fingers enter the cut,
hook the skin,
pull the hind legs back:
with a deft cracking of bones.
It comes off in one piece:
the skin from the meat,
like the sound of a wet sandcastle being turned out. And ends with a bang.

Thanks for posting this, it's one that sticks.

[jeremyyoung]

Thank you ellajam

[ChristopherSea]

Welcome to the site Jeremy,

This is a potent narrative and you have aptly captured the repulsion and brutality of the experience. I like the way you illustrate how childhood friends part on their divergent paths after adolescence.

You may want to nix the mixi and just substitute myxomatosis. To this scientist it would read fine. Alternatively, you could footnote it. I have encountered them many times in other poems. I feel the same way about the 4-10 standing alone for shotgun. More than one hare will be bogged down in these two mires.

Loved the closing similie and the poignant image/statement on crushed childhood dreams/symbols. I saw a gutted Easter Bunny and a bully-stomped sand-sculpture.

Nice work, cheers!/Chris

[jeremyyoung]

Thank you Christophersea

Good point on the footnotes,

Not sure what you mean by "divergent paths after adolescence"

[ChristopherSea]

Thank you Christophersea

Good point on the footnotes,

Not sure what you mean by "divergent paths after adolescence"

Take, for example, two chums playing with toy guns as children. As adults, one may become a gun enthusiast and hunter, while the other may abhor them and be a proponent of gun control.

[jeremyyoung]

Thanks, I hadn't thought of it like that.

It's probably a cultural thing, as the only guns I ever saw as a child was this one, that shot the rabbit, and another that hung on a friends living-room wall that his dad used to murder his wife.

[71degrees]

The Rabbit God
The sun sits high past the noontime,
the flat land, new mown,
ambles away to the river.
And, in the last field before the railway lines
I lean against the stake of the barbed wire fence
and watch rabbits.

The year before the roadsides had been littered
with the blinded debris of mixi.

He is two months younger than I;
taller, more willing to fight,
though maybe my equal in strength.
We have just had a wheelie competition,
in the dust of the abandoned road,
which runs arrow straight over the crossing.
Our brown-berry legs,
in short trousers,
carry the scars of play,
in these dying days of the summer holiday.

He tells me to wait outside,
I kick stones:
he re-appears with the gun.
I am nervous.
He tells me it is fine,
that his parents won't mind.
And, anyway, they are both at work.
The gun is nearly as tall as me.
And as he pulls the trigger,
it nearly knocks him backwards:
though he says it is only a 4/10,
and he's fired bigger.

The rabbit looks shocked.
One moment it was chasing it's friend's tail
the next it is moving sideways,
then backwards
then looping into the air.
The field which moments earlier
had been dotted with grey dancing,
lies fallow and still
a sea of watching eyes.

It is larger than I imagine.
'A female,' he tells me, laughing,
squeezing the guts,
gushing out a yellow stream.
I tell him to stop,
sensing desecration,
but he says you have to do it.
He breaks the gun, and casually carries it on the hip
holding the now cleaned doe
by the ears.

The last time I was in this garden,
we used a catapult
to test the parachute of his Action Man.
And, I think of this
as he slits the rabbit from pelvis to neck.
The torn flesh and purple innards
force me to retreat to the corner of the house.
When I peer around the wall,
in response to his urging,
I see his fingers enter the cut,
hook the skin,
pull the hind legs back:
with a deft cracking of bones.
It comes off in one piece:
the skin from the meat,
like the sound of a wet sandcastle being turned out.

Placement of year (use of "mexi") is fine but is that what the poem is about? Is it necessary? I wouldn't mind the poem starting w/stanza 3. Would eliminate much of the worry that word seems to be causing everyone. Would also keep interest in the title and show a bit more of a "aha" surprise for the reader when the rabbit is introduced, especially with the brutality of the neighbor. Kept seeing Sid from Toy Story No, really. Have you ever read "Stone Boy?" Totally different but still I also flashed on that short story for some reason. My friend Lance was a hunter / trapper when I was a kid. He'd skin animals like peeling potatoes. I was fascinated by it.

Everything else has been hashed out / pointed out. I don't have much to offer. This is good. I just used "deftly" in one of my poems. That word also caught my eye.

[jeremyyoung]

71 degrees

You could be right about establishing the year. I'll have a think about it.

Not sure about starting at stanza 3, on the one hand it does take the reader straight into the action, which usually I try to do, but equally it loses the sketch of the landscape which gives the poem space. Again I will have a think about it.

The hunter theme is part of the duality of the poem. It's probably how the majority of the human race gets meat, and someone who does hunt would have a different reaction to someone whose meat comes prepacked in the abstract.

Thanks for reading.

[rayheinrich]

I do like the poem, especially the description
of field dressing (cleaning) that unlucky rabbit.

Here's a tiny mistake, but I thought I'd mention it anyway:
The written name for the shotgun whose barrel has an
inside diameter .410 inches is "410" or (much less common)
"410 caliber" (just as pistols are called 22's, 45's, etc.).
Writing the name as "4/10" or "4-10" is incorrect.

P.S. And (just for the record as you didn't do this)
calling it a "410 gauge shotgun" would be incorrect
as "gauge" refers to the weight of a single lead sphere
that would fit inside the gun's barrel. The lead sphere
for a 12 gauge shotgun weights 1/12 of a pound
(the gauge of a 410 is 67.6).

P.P.S. And yes, I was born and raised in Texas

[jeremyyoung]

Ray

Thanks for that, will correct the calibre, I knew it was a four ten but was unsure of how it is written - I'm not going to argue with a Texan about guns

Incidentally would a 12 bore be the same thing as a 12 guage?

[rayheinrich]

Ray

Thanks for that, will correct the calibre, I knew it was a four ten but was unsure of how it is written - I'm not going to argue with a Texan about guns

Incidentally would a 12 bore be the same thing as a 12 guage?

Yes, it's slang for "12 gauge" even though, literally, it doesn't make
much sense. But then, slang doesn't have to, e.g. "hot-dog" "roach-coach".