Ensnaring Skylarks

[Brownlie]

I sought to catch myself a skylark with a slightly different snare.

Swiping at the air, I hoped to hold the feathered firecracker
Of a song-bird bursting out of text,
But the snapshots faded faster
Than that unseen power
Casted in a summer wind.
 
O yes, don’t we know that change has always plagued us.
Perhaps we see it most in those consumed by jolly grog.
The men who drink themselves to tatters
Just to still that sea-sick nausea that they bear inside their guts
Present us with a mystery.
 Why some would get an aching churn from
Standing on a fluid stream of geometrics,
And why this existential angst would manifest
In battering the mind for stillness,
Seems to correlate to casting birds in summer winds.
 
Standing in the staleness of midday,
I’m grasping at those fabled birds and gales
While I mark the revolutions of the high-top star,
Caught synchronic in explosion.
 
Goading me to mania with its sightless song,
I may have stared, as you might have done,
at the roving sun that’s always there and burning
Until my skin would cook into a blistered peel,
But, instead, I sucked a drop of nelson’s blood,
And I hoped my mind would fade before my flesh
Would Reach the autumn of a red red sun.

[vagabond]

I sought to catch myself a skylark with a slightly different snare.

Swiping at the air, I hoped to hold the feathered firecracker
Of a song-bird bursting out of text,
But the snapshots faded faster
Than that unseen power
Casted in a summer wind.
 
O yes, don’t we know that change has always plagued us.
Perhaps we see it most in those consumed by jolly grog.
The men who drink themselves to tatters
Just to still that sea-sick nausea that they bear inside their guts
Present us with a mystery.
 Why some would get an aching churn from
Standing on a fluid stream of geometrics,
And why this existential angst would manifest
In battering the mind for stillness,
Seems to correlate to casting birds in summer winds.
 
Standing in the staleness of midday,
I’m grasping at those fabled birds and gales
While I mark the revolutions of the high-top star,
Caught synchronic in explosion.
 
Goading me to mania with its sightless song,
I may have stared, as you might have done,
at the roving sun that’s always there and burning
Until my skin would cook into a blistered peel,
But, instead, I sucked a drop of nelson’s blood,
And I hoped my mind would fade before my flesh
Would Reach the autumn of a red red sun.

i like it as much as i can, given that i don´t get the meaning though i know (or looked up) the words.
maybe here  it´s also that i lack imagination.

so... if you could give me some hints you risk that i ll try to comment on your poem.

[Brownlie]

I sought to catch myself a skylark with a slightly different snare.

Swiping at the air, I hoped to hold the feathered firecracker
Of a song-bird bursting out of text,
But the snapshots faded faster
Than that unseen power
Casted in a summer wind.
 
O yes, don’t we know that change has always plagued us.
Perhaps we see it most in those consumed by jolly grog.
The men who drink themselves to tatters
Just to still that sea-sick nausea that they bear inside their guts
Present us with a mystery.
 Why some would get an aching churn from
Standing on a fluid stream of geometrics,
And why this existential angst would manifest
In battering the mind for stillness,
Seems to correlate to casting birds in summer winds.
 
Standing in the staleness of midday,
I’m grasping at those fabled birds and gales
While I mark the revolutions of the high-top star,
Caught synchronic in explosion.
 
Goading me to mania with its sightless song,
I may have stared, as you might have done,
at the roving sun that’s always there and burning
Until my skin would cook into a blistered peel,
But, instead, I sucked a drop of nelson’s blood,
And I hoped my mind would fade before my flesh
Would Reach the autumn of a red red sun.

i like it as much as i can, given that i don´t get the meaning though i know (or looked up) the words.
maybe here  it´s also that i lack imagination.

so... if you could give me some hints you risk that i ll try to comment on your poem.

To a Sky Lark is a poem by Shelley about a bird that he can't see. So the speaker here has set off to catch himself a skylark. The summer wind is also a repeated image that Shelley uses in hymn to Intellectual Beauty which, to generalize, is about a fleeting inspirational force. So I connected that with alcoholism and words found in chanteys like jolly grog and a drop of Nelson's blood. Thanks for reading, hopefully that wasn't an earful.

[vagabond]

I sought to catch myself a skylark with a slightly different snare.

Swiping at the air, I hoped to hold the feathered firecracker
Of a song-bird bursting out of text,
But the snapshots faded faster
Than that unseen power
Casted in a summer wind.
 
O yes, don’t we know that change has always plagued us.
Perhaps we see it most in those consumed by jolly grog.
The men who drink themselves to tatters
Just to still that sea-sick nausea that they bear inside their guts
Present us with a mystery.
 Why some would get an aching churn from
Standing on a fluid stream of geometrics,
And why this existential angst would manifest
In battering the mind for stillness,
Seems to correlate to casting birds in summer winds.
 
Standing in the staleness of midday,
I’m grasping at those fabled birds and gales
While I mark the revolutions of the high-top star,
Caught synchronic in explosion.
 
Goading me to mania with its sightless song,
I may have stared, as you might have done,
at the roving sun that’s always there and burning
Until my skin would cook into a blistered peel,
But, instead, I sucked a drop of nelson’s blood,
And I hoped my mind would fade before my flesh
Would Reach the autumn of a red red sun.

i like it as much as i can, given that i don´t get the meaning though i know (or looked up) the words.
maybe here  it´s also that i lack imagination.

so... if you could give me some hints you risk that i ll try to comment on your poem.

To a Sky Lark is a poem by Shelley about a bird that he can't see. So the speaker here has set off to catch himself a skylark. The summer wind is also a repeated image that Shelley uses in hymn to Intellectual Beauty which, to generalize, is about a fleeting inspirational force. So I connected that with alcoholism and words found in chanteys like jolly grog and a drop of Nelson's blood. Thanks for reading, hopefully that wasn't an earful.

I am so sorry, promised too much. Love the flow, the words and images but allthough your hints were helpful I still don´t understand enough to interpret or criticize.
maybe some time later.
greetings, christine