Julia's comments (member since Apr 19, 2008)

Julia's comments from the ¡ POETRY ! group.

Auden too. Auden continually edited, even his most famous poems.

Memorial Day Morning
in an Iowa Cemetery

Stray scraps of gray wool weave
above ancient humus, new grass.

Purple irises in aluminum foil
guard names on ordered marble.

Breeze embraces earthworms,
lilacs, a child’s laughter shushed.

Old farmers finger dull medals,
shattered boy memories unvoiced.

A family encircles a slight stone
leaving them wordless long ago.

Minister’s wife assembles children
to place plastic wreaths on cue.

Taps from lone high school bugler
patter off grain elevator on Main.

Later, iron gates keen in rusty alto,
meadowlarks resume their matins.

Julia Meylor Simpson

I get all the images about the tough world, and daily street killing, and so it goes on. Strong, yes. But would a mother really send her child off to school right after watching her dad shot down. Would you? If not, why is it okay to assume that another mother -- even one who supposedly sees death everyday -- would send her child off to school? Or is this a stereotype? I ask because I think the question begs to be asked.

Life does go on, but it's never the same.

Strong images, powerful topic, immediate response. Problem is, I just don't believe it. It doesn't feel like the truth to me. I don't believe it would feel this way. It would feel that way to me if I were driving by on a bus or in a car -- I could move on to work or school -- probably -- but I honestly don't believe that this mother or child could. Am I the only one?

It looks like a beautiful book. Congratulations! Maybe you could tell us a bit about the back story. How did it come to be? Had you sent it to other contests? What did it teach you?

Margaret,

Did you mean to post your poem in the October poetry contest? I'm not sure why you posted it here.

What a Ghost Feels

Once they were dark whispers
that lived under beds and in closets,
so real she could feel sandpaper fingers
brush an arm or a leg left exposed
above a worn chenille bedspread.

Today she knows their nightly forays
were more hope-filled than horrifying,
an attempt to warm a handful of bones
next to the inferno of her young life.

And now she floats through school halls
with papers to grade and files to fill,
while young eyes gaze right through her
and she tries to hook a bony finger
around a smile to acknowledge she exists.

She longs to release a blood-curdling
scream or snatch up a freshman for lunch,
to force her way back into their reality,
to feed on their hopes and dreams and future.

Yes, she knows what a ghost feels,
to wake in the middle of a cold night,
thinking it’s time to rekindle the hearth fire,
only to find her finger bones scuttling
across the covers of a child’s bed.

Welcome, Chris. We all would do well to learn from the great poets of all time. Start a new discussion string when you return from that amazing photo journey.

I don't even see the lines you are posting in Jon's poem.

This is the poem I am critiquing -- no caps in this copy ...?



I walk a crimson path alone and my time of death is nearing.
I feel so lonely in the world and I am scared of what I'm hearing.
There is a cry, a call, a feeling, a giant that is kneeling.
A boy is standing, is standing on his own;
walking away from all that he has known.

I was so afraid to try, so afraid I could not fly.
Though now I see it, I see it when I stand:
This little troubled boy, he has grown to be a man.
He sees the world before him as a field yet to be sown,
and yet he fears to stretch his wings, afraid to be alone.

I feel that I am wondering alone, and I do not remember why I’m crying.
No, I cannot make it without you by my side, because I’m dying.
The child that is here in my soul is yearning,
can I ever go back to what I was before?

It is the child within me that is dying on the floor,
I feel he is taking his last breath,
and he does not want to be alone facing death.
Would you hold him, would wipe away his tears, would you love him?
Do not let the child die.

Nice, Madison. This is a great way to start a poetry class. Save this -- it will mean so much more in a year or two or 10 or 20. You've found the magic of writing -- have fun with the poetry class. I am starting another one in a few weeks and can't wait. Always more to learn about poetry ... and myself.

Read it out loud, Madison. Does the phrasing seem a bit awkward? Have you twisted clarity for the sake of rhyming couplets? There's real pain and emotion here -- the reader can feel it -- and that's good. But does the rhyme help shape it or take away from the power. If you want rhyme, that's fine, but don't let it devour your message. Let the rhyme be more natural and flowing -- don't worry about where it falls in the line. Or work on creating powerful images and then rework to add the rhythm you want, if that's important to you. Just a suggestion.

When I ask for a critique, I want some real feedback. Not just an "oh, that's good" comment. So if this doesn't work for you, just ignore it. Good luck.

Nice image, Mukesh. Just something to consider in haiku where every syllable counts. Three of your 17 syllables are the colorless word "the." You also have two prepositions -- in, for. So five blah syllables out of 17. Now that you are in the revising stage, it's time to look at every word and think: What's going to give me more bang for my buck? Go for it.

Mom/sue ... I love your choices -- Berry is a favorite of mine.

I'm not seeing the random CAPS that Erica is talking about. Can you give me an example of a random one? The only place I see Jon using an initial cap is at the beginning of a sentence -- where it should be. Am I not seeing something here?

Published works too. Although I've continued to twiddle with a poem after publication...

"Amen."

These last lines always gets me ...


from There Will Come Soft Rains

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Sara Teasdale

Just some suggestions for you to consider or dump:

You're using rhyme and rhythm here, so once you've established a beat you might want to work to keep it going -- or develop an alternative beat for a portion of the poem. Read the poem out loud. Do you stumble anywhere in your reading? Underline the words and phrases that don't seem to flow and think about them some more. Again, just an idea if you think it needs more work. Actually, leave it alone for a week -- have fun with your girlfriend -- and come back with new eyes. A poem is never finished, just abandoned.