Posts: 16
Threads: 2
Joined: Feb 2014
Going Home
I.
I don’t want to look through my memory box;
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it.
Yet each time I make my way home,
it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear.
I’d take claws and teeth over this feeling.
How long ago did your past release you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles.
The pull of home’s jagged horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening.
But I am done looking into mirrors
searching for the child I used to be.
The last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tightly clenched fists and jaw,
screaming at the sadness to stop.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck.
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances.
Those quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink,
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood.
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer.
But goddamnit, I will make it.
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
The need to break away is non-negotiable;
home rests on my shoulders like stones.
II.
On a greyhound bus with a stiff back
my mother rode out of her hometown
three days after high school graduation.
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me take myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then.
Or she’ll die like her mother did,
sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turned into a clothes rack
and the crazy piled up against the door.
I know now why my mother didn’t rescue her.
I wish they had let that be my case study,
gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage,
on how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity.
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess.
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one.
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure.
Now everything about home speaks of monsters.
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems.
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back.
Those split bones were from a final family visit,
a visit to my mother’s monstrous memory box.
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing.
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter.
First Edit:
Going Home
You want to reduce this to ‘mommy issues?’
I might be a little rickety these days;
Fear and I played marbles and jacks,
I rode in cars double-seated with Anxiety
and fought at the lunch table with Hatred.
I don’t want to look through my memory box;
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it.
Yet each time I make my way home,
somehow it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear.
I’d take claws and teeth over this feeling.
How long ago did your past release you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles.
The pull of home’s jagged horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening.
But I am done looking into mirrors
searching for the child I used to be.
The last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tightly clenched fists and jaw,
screaming at the sadness to stop.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck.
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances.
Quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink,
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood.
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer.
But goddamnit, I will make it.
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
On a greyhound bus with a stiff back
my mother rode out of her hometown
three days after high school graduation.
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me take myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then.
Or she’ll die like her mother did,
sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turned into a clothes rack
and the crazy piled up against the door.
I know now why my mother didn’t rescue her.
I wish they had let that be my case study,
gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage,
on how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity.
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess.
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one.
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure.
Now everything about home speaks of monsters.
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems.
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back.
Those split bones were from a final family visit,
a visit to my mother’s monstrous memory box.
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing.
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter.
Original:
Home
You want to reduce me to ‘mommy issues?’
I may be a little rickety these days
but Fear and I played marbles and jacks
I rode in cars double-seated with Anxiety
and shared my lunch table with Anger and Hatred
I don’t care to look through my memory box
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it
But each time I make my way home
somehow it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear
I’d take those claws and teeth over this
How long ago did the fear leave you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles
The pull of home’s ‘golden’ horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening
But I am done looking into mirrors
searching for the child I used to be
I haven’t fallen apart in weeks
and the last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tight clenched fists and jaw
and I screamed at the sadness
until I was angrier at it than myself.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills I took at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck
I don’t know if it’s still there now
I’m sure it’ll arrive here soon
to check up on me, dissolve my resolve,
and drag me back across state lines
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances
But such politeness got me nowhere
People with unfeeling consciences
like blaring biohazard warnings
or blank-eyed, crossed-bones signs
to warn away from toxicity and poison;
they paid no attention to quiet objection,
steamrolling over my shrinking spine
and neither does my sadness, it seems
Have I stepped past that now, at last?
Quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer
But goddamnit, I will make it
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
I’m not here to mourn my priority list
or validate a need for re-grouted tiles
A greyhound bus, a stiff back, a pile of cash
My mother rode that out of her hometown
three days after her high school graduation
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me wheel myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then
Or she’ll die like her mother did
Sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turns into a clothes rack
and the crazy piles up against the door
Did anyone rescue her from that?
I wish they had let it be my case study
Gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage
On how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure
Everything about home speaks of monsters
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back
Those split bones were from the last visit
to the monsters, or sisters, of my mother
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter
I'd love some comments focused especially on where I'm breaking for stanzas, and on how to improve the first stanza. I'm aware that it is very long and a bit drawn-out, so please let me know which parts you think are most effective. Thanks! C:
Posts: 2,602
Threads: 303
Joined: Feb 2017
(03-16-2014, 10:04 AM)MadisonDiem Wrote: Hi mad,
Yes,it is long and consequently suffers from that old ague, conjunctionvitus. There is not enough effort in the connective thinking department, when stanzas could be contained and curtailed by content...so you have, in S1, five conjunctions; four of which serve only to hold together over-extended wordiness to the detriment of rigidity. The structure wobbles as the metaphors weigh on the framework. First observation then, tighten up. Try precision not proliferation. This would encourage discipline in your stanzas which "as is" just have no raison d'etre.
Home
You want to reduce me to ‘mommy issues?’ Why the quotes? We either know what mummy issues are, so no quotes needed...or we don't, so why use the expression.? Cheap device which breaks in use.
I may be a little rickety these days
but Fear and I played marbles and jacks
I rode in cars double-seated with Anxiety
and shared my lunch tab[le with Anger and Hatred Punctuate for Pete's sake...or you will become happy with uncertainty of intent. "..marbles and jacks I rode in cars..."?
I don’t care to look through my memory box
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it
But each time I make my way home See. I told you so. You are butting needlessly. Punctuate as a first option, not last
somehow it creeps out from under my bedSomehow? How? Oh, IT is like monsters? Read aloud what you have written to catch these little errors.
like the monsters most children fear
I’d take those claws and teeth over this
How long ago did the fear leave you? ...and predictably you have now completely lost all desire to be clear and are shitting out words uncontrollaby and uncontrolled. Force yourself to STOP pensively after each purposeful point...then give your condensed thought the benefit of space. Isolate the each meaning with punctuation before stumbling into the next. Remember that you can read your own coming thoughts from a couple of words back...the reader has to wait upon you. You see the gaps coming and skip over them...the reader stumbles as I am so doing
The strength of mine reaches across miles mine what?
The pull of home’s ‘golden’ horizon Golden...I know the word. Did you "think" I would "need" to "look" it up?
is sweet, simpering, and sickening
But I am done looking into mirrors More buts than bananas so I guess that's a blessing...but,yes, we have no bananas. Conjunctionvitus
searching for the child I used to be Ah yes, the old search for oneself. I wondered when this one would pop up. Look, it IS a cliche, but that is not the problem. The problem is it is superfluous to the theme. What IS this about? Are you going to list the things you don't do? If so, then write a poem about them...another poem...just not this one. This one is about what you do do...I think.
I haven’t fallen apart in weeks
and the last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart, Nice thinking.
I became tight clenched fists and jaw Awkward syntax here. It is that bloody"and" again. "...I became xxxxxxxx and jaw"?
and I screamed at the sadness
until I was angrier at it than myself.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills I took at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck No. You are weakening your whole ethos with too many conjunctions. It is now irritating . Stop. Get your thoughts into stanzas. Short stanzas preferably...they are short thoughts. Nothing wrong with that.
I don’t know if it’s still there now
I’m sure it’ll arrive here soon
to check up on me, dissolve my resolve,
and drag me back across state lines What?
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances Good. Very good. Drop the "that" and your poem starts here. Holy shit...another but is coming! The poem ends here.
But such politeness got me nowhere
People with unfeeling consciences Ask yourself...what does this mean? Then tell me
like blaring biohazard warnings
or blank-eyed, crossed-bones signs
to warn away from toxicity and poison;
they paid no attention to quiet objection,
steamrolling over my shrinking spine
and neither does my sadness, it seems
Have I stepped past that now, at last? You are warming up but too late. I really like the metaphor but without consistent punctuation it loses punch and power. Worse, I keep expecting it all to be disavowed with another but.
Quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer
But goddamnit, I will make it
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
I’m not here to mourn my priority list
or validate a need for re-grouted tiles
A greyhound bus, a stiff back, a pile of cash
My mother rode that out of her hometown
three days after her high school graduation
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me wheel myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then
Or she’ll die like her mother did
Sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turns into a clothes rack
and the crazy piles up against the door
Did anyone rescue her from that?
I wish they had let it be my case study
Gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage
On how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure
Everything about home speaks of monsters
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back
Those split bones were from the last visit
to the monsters, or sisters, of my mother
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter
I stopped through exhaustion. Yes, it is long..like a CV that tries to get every job, there is an embarrassing desperation here. Shorter stanzas are easier to control and curtail. Sorry to add this but elimination can also be easier if there is more fibre and less gluten...if you will excuse the metaphor
Best,
tectak
I'd love some comments focused especially on where I'm breaking for stanzas, and on how to improve the first stanza. I'm aware that it is very long and a bit drawn-out, so please let me know which parts you think are most effective. Thanks! C:
Posts: 126
Threads: 17
Joined: Mar 2014
Gosh!
I feel rather like a marble in a marble run. Each verse drops me in, spins me around a bit, then shoots me out the side about half way through.
It could be that this a genius work of alienation, a masterpiece of anti-communication art installation, it certainly has a certain Jackson Pollock approach - words are thrown together in an apparent random fashion, and while at times the effect is rather good -
"I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances"
Mostly it just sends me popping out the side, looking at the stanzas above and below to see if there is any clue as to what is happening, and why I should keep dropping the marble into the chute of the next stanza.
I didn't mind the sparse punctuation but I would have liked to see more options of sentence construction - as it stands, the freedom feels like an excuse, not an opportunity.
Posts: 70
Threads: 17
Joined: Jan 2013
I agree that this can be improved via shortening. I especially like everything between “That fierceness” and “reassurance”, for example, so the job might be to collect and mold together lines like these. Anyhow, some more commentary (take whatever is useful, toss the rest...)
Quote:You want to reduce me to ‘mommy issues?’
I may be a little rickety these days
but Fear and I played marbles and jacks
I rode in cars double-seated with Anxiety
and shared my lunch table with Anger and Hatred
Playing a game against Fear makes sense; I can easily see Fear as an enemy, to be defeated. Riding in a car with anxiety also works for me; I picture the narrator in the back seat, glancing now and then to Anxiety; the later nervously twiddling its thumbs, staring out the window as an excuse for avoiding conversation. I can't picture sharing my lunch table with Anger and Hatred. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be personifying...
I don’t care to look through my memory box
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it
But each time I make my way home
somehow it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear
I’d take those claws and teeth over this
How long ago did the fear leave you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles
The pull of home’s ‘golden’ horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening
One of the first two lines can go, otherwise it can be redundant. If you don't care to look in the box, why do you have to duct tape it? I like the alliteration of the last line.
But I am done looking into mirrors
searching for the child I used to be
I haven’t fallen apart in weeks
and the last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tight clenched fists and jaw
and I screamed at the sadness
until I was angrier at it than myself.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills I took at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck
Not sure how to interpret the 26 pills. Is the narrator fighting some pernicious disease, or are the pills the inevitable domain of aging? I like the collarbones and tilted neck; perhaps a stanza dedicated to “anatomical annoyances” mightn't hurt.
I don’t know if it’s still there now
I’m sure it’ll arrive here soon
to check up on me, dissolve my resolve,
and drag me back across state lines
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances
But such politeness got me nowhere
People with unfeeling consciences
like blaring biohazard warnings
or blank-eyed, crossed-bones signs
to warn away from toxicity and poison;
they paid no attention to quiet objection,
steamrolling over my shrinking spine
and neither does my sadness, it seems
Have I stepped past that now, at last?
Quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer
But goddamnit, I will make it
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
I’m not here to mourn my priority list
or validate a need for re-grouted tiles
A greyhound bus, a stiff back, a pile of cash
My mother rode that out of her hometown
three days after her high school graduation
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me wheel myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then
Or she’ll die like her mother did
Sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turns into a clothes rack
and the crazy piles up against the door
Did anyone rescue her from that?
"Wheel away" brings the same disease/aging ambiguity as above. I like “shower bar turns into a clothes rack”, and more so than the crazy piling up. I also like the grandfather/lawyer lines below. But yes, I'm (1) a bit of an inexperienced "long poem" reader, but also (2) it does start sounding the same.
I wish they had let it be my case study
Gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage
On how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure
Everything about home speaks of monsters
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back
Those split bones were from the last visit
to the monsters, or sisters, of my mother
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter
Consider ending without referring back to the narrator. Just a final a metaphore would do fine.
Posts: 16
Threads: 2
Joined: Feb 2014
Thanks, folks. I've edited and will continue to work on the more problematic parts as I pare it down.
tectak:
I used the single quote to denote that it's a colloquial usage, I suppose?
Added punctuation as suggested.. however, all poetry does not necessitate punctuation. First person 'I' and personification at the beginning probably make it too confusing without it, as you said.
I worked on removing the extraneous conjunctions.
"Somehow? How? Oh, IT is like monsters? Read aloud what you have written to catch these little errors." - I'm not sure what you mean by this.
I'm pretty sure what I'm referring to as 'mine' is clearly fear. "How long ago did the fear leave you? The strength of mine reaches across miles"
I put golden in single quotes to let the reader know that it was a sarcastic/satirical usage.
Awkward syntax on tightly clenched fists etc - Will rework this on the next edit, perhaps.. I don't think it came across as intended.
"No. You are weakening your whole ethos with too many conjunctions. It is now irritating . Stop. Get your thoughts into stanzas. Short stanzas preferably...they are short thoughts. Nothing wrong with that. " Do you mean stanzas, or lines? I do think a stanza can have more than one thought...
"People with unfeeling consciences: Ask yourself...what does this mean? Then tell me" Think a little. This line is certainly not the most abstract in this poem. Regardless, I took out that bit.
jeremyyoung:
I literally have no idea what most of your comment means. I assume my poem leaves you wanting when it comes to clear meaning.. I think. Please elaborate on your thoughts on my sentence construction and possible improvements.
P&P:
Agreed, the personification is not as effective as desired. I'll keep trying to figure out how to begin.
Hopefully fixed the redundancy of the first two lines of the 2nd stanza.
I thought the image of taking pills would be clear when combined with the repetition of sadness, but I'll work on that. Clearly the number of 26 is throwing people off.
Wheel away does evoke elderly connotations, point taken. I've changed that.
"Consider ending without referring back to the narrator. Just a final a metaphore would do fine." - I'm not sure what you're saying in the last bit.
Posts: 2,602
Threads: 303
Joined: Feb 2017
(03-17-2014, 08:27 AM)MadisonDiem Wrote: Thanks, folks. I've edited and will continue to work on the more problematic parts as I pare it down.
tectak:
I used the single quote to denote that it's a colloquial usage, I suppose?
Added punctuation as suggested.. however, all poetry does not necessitate punctuation. You are almost correct. It only necessitates it when necessary. That is my pointFirst person 'I' and personification at the beginning probably make it too confusing without it, as you said.
I worked on removing the extraneous conjunctions.
"Somehow? How? Oh, IT is like monsters? Read aloud what you have written to catch these little errors." - I'm not sure what you mean by this. IT is singular, MONSTERS plural
I'm pretty sure what I'm referring to as 'mine' is clearly fear. "How long ago did the fear leave you? The strength of mine reaches across miles" Comparing apples with oranges. You ask how long but answer how strong then complicate further with distance. This is disassociation on a grand scale
I put golden in single quotes to let the reader know that it was a sarcastic/satirical usage. Credit your reader with some ability
Awkward syntax on tightly clenched fists etc - Will rework this on the next edit, perhaps.. I don't think it came across as intended.
"No. You are weakening your whole ethos with too many conjunctions. It is now irritating . Stop. Get your thoughts into stanzas. Short stanzas preferably...they are short thoughts. Nothing wrong with that. " Do you mean stanzas, or lines? I do think a stanza can have more than one thought... I mean stanzas. Of course a stanza can have more than one thought. A stanza can have 1, 2,3, 4 or as many as you wish...just not 2 1/2, or 3 1/4, or 5 1/3.
"People with unfeeling consciences: Ask yourself...what does this mean? Then tell me" Think a little. This line is certainly not the most abstract in this poem. Regardless, I took out that bit.
jeremyyoung:
I literally have no idea what most of your comment means. I assume my poem leaves you wanting when it comes to clear meaning.. I think. Please elaborate on your thoughts on my sentence construction and possible improvements.
P&P:
Agreed, the personification is not as effective as desired. I'll keep trying to figure out how to begin.
Hopefully fixed the redundancy of the first two lines of the 2nd stanza.
I thought the image of taking pills would be clear when combined with the repetition of sadness, but I'll work on that. Clearly the number of 26 is throwing people off.
Wheel away does evoke elderly connotations, point taken. I've changed that.
"Consider ending without referring back to the narrator. Just a final a metaphore would do fine." - I'm not sure what you're saying in the last bit.
Posts: 126
Threads: 17
Joined: Mar 2014
It doesn't surprise me, to do so would require thought and perspective.
Posts: 16
Threads: 2
Joined: Feb 2014
I would welcome comments on the changes I've made so far.
tectak:
Another edit has hopefully helped the fragmented thoughts throughout the stanzas. I'll try to focus on that as I continue.
(03-17-2014, 10:25 PM)jeremyyoung Wrote: It doesn't surprise me, to do so would require thought and perspective. I see that requiring people to comment has not guided them to be helpful, or even polite.
I.
I don’t want to look through my memory box;
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it.
Yet each time I make my way home,
it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear.
I’d take claws and teeth over this feeling.
The monsters line doesn't need to be there. It could be implied by the lines before and after it.
How long ago did your past release you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles.
The pull of home’s jagged horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening.
Why do you ask a question? You're talking to the reader. Or you're talking to someone specific, the mother or somebody. That's a popular way to write. Talking about yourself to the reader because the reader can relate. But why waste the time and space? Most popular writing over the last 50 so years is adolescent writing.
But I am done looking into mirrors
searching for the child I used to be.
The last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tightly clenched fists and jaw,
screaming at the sadness to stop.
Everything after the first line about being done looking in mirrors is poorly written. Do you see why somebody might think that? It's best to have things like that out with yourself, it's your poem, you fight with yourself over it. I'm just saying.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck.
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances.
Those quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink,
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood.
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer.
But goddamnit, I will make it.
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
The need to break away is non-negotiable;
home rests on my shoulders like stones.
Those bold lines are what stand out. The other lines are weak, melodramatic and just kind of there.
II.
On a greyhound bus with a stiff back
my mother rode out of her hometown
three days after high school graduation.
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me take myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then.
That's poorly written as poetry or prose.
Or she’ll die like her mother did,
sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turned into a clothes rack
and the crazy piled up against the door.
I know now why my mother didn’t rescue her.
Stand out ideas. The second one is better, the first might work. But you have the stanza to consider.
I wish they had let that be my case study,
gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage,
on how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity.
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess.
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one.
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure.
You could write a whole poem on this stanza. You could single out situations instead of overloading one poem with all these things.
Now everything about home speaks of monsters.
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems.
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back.
Those split bones were from a final family visit,
a visit to my mother’s monstrous memory box.
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing.
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter.
You're writing a family novel in a poem. The poem isn't long enough for that, and the long poem you have here consists mainly of filler lines. Maybe you need to write a poem like this, but you still have to learn how to do it. Nobody can tell you how to do it, then it wouldn't be your poem. Learning how to write a decent line is harder than learning how to deal with whatever emotion compels you to write. The emotion makes it harder not easier.
Even if this is all fiction.
Go through and cut out everything you're uncertain about. Then add only things that you are certain about, as long as that takes. And keep doing that until something works.
Posts: 70
Threads: 17
Joined: Jan 2013
Quote:P&P:
"Consider ending without referring back to the narrator. Just a final a metaphor would do fine." - I'm not sure what you're saying in the last bit.
I meant that you don't have to refer back to the narrator at the very end, just tell a short allegory in a few lines (allegory would've been a better word choice than metaphor, no?... take my literary terms with a grain of salt). In your current version, that would mean ending the poem with "Seeing" (although if you agree, you should extend the story). Anyway...
Posts: 126
Threads: 17
Joined: Mar 2014
I have been tongue bitingly polite.
My advice is to calm down, let the feedback come in, stop fiddling with the piece until the feedback stops, and then consider what you want to do.... hence my suggestion of thought and reflection.
But failing that, try counting 8 beats on a line, four lines to a verse, try to find a rhyme and possibly add some word play or puns.
Posts: 2,602
Threads: 303
Joined: Feb 2017
(03-16-2014, 10:04 AM)MadisonDiem Wrote: Going Home
I.
I don’t want to look through my memory box;
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it.
Yet each time I make my way home,
it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear. THE monster but your poems
I’d take claws and teeth over this feeling. I believe this is preferential but it is awkward
How long ago did your past release you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles. I don't like the metaphor at all. Q)How long ago was it? A) Oh, very strong; at least a mile. Huh?
The pull of home’s jagged horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening....but this has merit
But I am done looking into mirrors OK. I get the reflective duality of emotion on the homesick thing...stick with it...Yikes! We are mirrorless...and for no good reason except BUT. Drop the but. It is a pointless filler.
searching for the child I used to be. Yeh yeh. You can avoid this old chestnut but you will choose not to. OK. Roast it again. Your poem and it is fitting
The last time that my tear ducts Pedantic but you do not need that "that" UNLESS you write it like this.
"The last time that my tear ducts tried
to betray my fighting heart, " Do you the see difference? It still is not perfect but you could make it so
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tightly clenched fists and jaw,
screaming at the sadness to stop. There is a good concept here but it is flaky for the reason previously given...but much worse is the screaming with a tightly clenched jaw. How does that work?
I might not be able to swallow it whole Total disconnect. What is this "it"? You know but I do not. You make assumptions way past my informed opinion. Is "it" too big to swallow or just your clenched jaw. Tidy this up.
like the twenty-six pills at breakfast What is like 26 pills? You do not say. Calling it "it" again does not inform. You have now lost me completely. Sorry
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck.
That fierceness is new to my fight; Drop the "that". It is a low-grade filler and totally unrelated to anything before. That coconut? Oh, not this one, you mean that one.
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances. Quite beautiful. I don't like myself for suggesting ANYTHING here but:
"quietly petering out into the relief
of silent self-absorbed reassurances."
Not as andy.
Those quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink,
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood.
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer. Yes. This works but the punctuation is bizarre. Semi-colon after ink I think. Period after ticket. Drop the and. All is opinion
But goddamnit, I will make it. I do believe you are genuinely genre-bound to "but" and "and" your way through your poetry. I would need to read more of you to be sure. Thus far you are so keen on conjunctions that I can only assume that such proliferation is a deliberate device to personalise the character. That is me being kind
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves. AAAARRRGGHHH! This is becoming a boolean battle of logical expressions. Is anything certain?
The need to break away is non-negotiable;
home rests on my shoulders like stones.
II.
On a greyhound bus with a stiff back All Greyhound buses have a stiff back. It improves roadholding.
my mother rode out of her hometown
three days after high school graduation.
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me take myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then. Again, nicely put and insightful. No buts.
Or she’ll die like her mother did,
sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turned into a clothes rack
and the crazy piled up against the door.
I know now why my mother didn’t rescue her.
I wish they had let that be my case study,
gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage,
on how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity.
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess.
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one.
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure.
Now everything about home speaks of monsters.
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems.
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back.
Those split bones were from a final family visit,
a visit to my mother’s monstrous memory box.
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing. Ah, the old ancient table. Hmmm.
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then; Mine what? Mine mutter? Mine table? Tidy it up
Like mother, like daughter.
Hi,
If shorter is better then shorter still is better still? Well, only up to a difficult point. You have a lot to say and this may, just may, be veracity-verse. There is a melancholic plangency about the piece that rings old cracked bells. I am begining to like it as I begin to understand it in all its wistful uncertainty. I don't have the time or inclination for forensic analysis, even in my own stuff, and my crit reflects this. I hope it helps.
Best,
tectak
First Edit:
Going Home
You want to reduce this to ‘mommy issues?’
I might be a little rickety these days;
Fear and I played marbles and jacks,
I rode in cars double-seated with Anxiety
and fought at the lunch table with Hatred.
I don’t want to look through my memory box;
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it.
Yet each time I make my way home,
somehow it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear.
I’d take claws and teeth over this feeling.
How long ago did your past release you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles.
The pull of home’s jagged horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening.
But I am done looking into mirrors
searching for the child I used to be.
The last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tightly clenched fists and jaw,
screaming at the sadness to stop.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck.
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances.
Quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink,
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood.
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer.
But goddamnit, I will make it.
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
On a greyhound bus with a stiff back
my mother rode out of her hometown
three days after high school graduation.
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me take myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then.
Or she’ll die like her mother did,
sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turned into a clothes rack
and the crazy piled up against the door.
I know now why my mother didn’t rescue her.
I wish they had let that be my case study,
gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage,
on how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity.
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess.
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one.
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure.
Now everything about home speaks of monsters.
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems.
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back.
Those split bones were from a final family visit,
a visit to my mother’s monstrous memory box.
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing.
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter.
Original:
Home
You want to reduce me to ‘mommy issues?’
I may be a little rickety these days
but Fear and I played marbles and jacks
I rode in cars double-seated with Anxiety
and shared my lunch table with Anger and Hatred
I don’t care to look through my memory box
I slammed it shut, duct taped and left it
But each time I make my way home
somehow it creeps out from under my bed
like the monsters most children fear
I’d take those claws and teeth over this
How long ago did the fear leave you?
The strength of mine reaches across miles
The pull of home’s ‘golden’ horizon
is sweet, simpering, and sickening
But I am done looking into mirrors
searching for the child I used to be
I haven’t fallen apart in weeks
and the last time that my tear ducts
tried to betray my fighting heart,
I became tight clenched fists and jaw
and I screamed at the sadness
until I was angrier at it than myself.
I might not be able to swallow it whole
like the twenty-six pills I took at breakfast
but I pull it back from my eyes and throat
to stow away under collarbones
and in the tense tilt of my neck
I don’t know if it’s still there now
I’m sure it’ll arrive here soon
to check up on me, dissolve my resolve,
and drag me back across state lines
That fierceness is new to my fight;
usually I am soft sobs, bitterly woven
into a cocoon of salt and desperation
quietly petering out into relief
and silent self-absorbed reassurances
But such politeness got me nowhere
People with unfeeling consciences
like blaring biohazard warnings
or blank-eyed, crossed-bones signs
to warn away from toxicity and poison;
they paid no attention to quiet objection,
steamrolling over my shrinking spine
and neither does my sadness, it seems
Have I stepped past that now, at last?
Quiet whisperings or taut muscles,
blood or sweat or tears or ink
I don’t know what cuts the ties to childhood
I might still choke on my airline ticket
and I might not drive off into the sunset
at the end of the next strenuous summer
But goddamnit, I will make it
I will have to dig graves in my heart
but those eulogies can write themselves.
I’m not here to mourn my priority list
or validate a need for re-grouted tiles
A greyhound bus, a stiff back, a pile of cash
My mother rode that out of her hometown
three days after her high school graduation
Someday she’ll understand my reasons
and let me wheel myself away from her
the same way she had to do back then
Or she’ll die like her mother did
Sinking into unwatched dusty corners
as the shower bar turns into a clothes rack
and the crazy piles up against the door
Did anyone rescue her from that?
I wish they had let it be my case study
Gave me one more hard-won math lesson
on how to subtract myself with less damage
On how to play the polite family game
of Sunday morning tea and insincerity
Only the old get to stop bullshitting, I guess
I told my grandfather I wanted to be a lawyer
and he said my brother would make a great one
I never learned how not to slam down
a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey,
and pretend sharing blood meant that mine
didn’t scream beneath the same bone structure
Everything about home speaks of monsters
Wanting to drain my parents dry is cruel
but survival instincts hold strong, it seems
I wonder if my compassion used to lie
in the left wrist I broke in kindergarten;
I think I lost track of it that far back
Those split bones were from the last visit
to the monsters, or sisters, of my mother
Ancient people used to divine with bones,
scattering them across a table and Seeing
Hindsight tells me mine spoke back then;
Like mother, like daughter
I'd love some comments focused especially on where I'm breaking for stanzas, and on how to improve the first stanza. I'm aware that it is very long and a bit drawn-out, so please let me know which parts you think are most effective. Thanks! C:
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