He gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, running down
sheer glass sheets in rivulets
to pool in hopeless futility
on sill and ledge.
He could not remember
how long he had been here,
indeed, he was not entirely sure
of time’s passage at all,
merely measuring his life
in periods of damp or dry,
of humidity or aridity.
Of course, everyone here
was pretty much the same,
here in this white-tiled purgatory
where days merged endlessly
as the world turned
on a rusting showerhead.
To his left a newcomer
jostled him suddenly,
anxious for a glimpse
beyond the crying windows
into some fancied nirvana.
“Do you come here often?” she asked,
hopefully peering over his shoulder.
Scarcely admitting her presence
he continued looking
into the abstract distance,
and answered as only
sentient slime-mould can,
“Me?" he shrugged,
"I only come here
for the condensation."
Tears
Fenris, it's usual (nay, required) that all new posters offer at least 2 (thoughtful) critiques of other poems on the site before requesting advice about their own. As this stands, I would also move it to the beginners, but I think that will depend upon what the other mods think too.
Dave
Dave
-
stuartryder
- Preponderant Poster
- Posts: 897
- Joined: Sat Apr 12, 2008 1:45 am
- antispam: no
- Location: Warrington, UK
I think it's pretty good, but it feels familiar to me. Have you posted, performed or discussed this poem before elsewhere?
Stu
Stu
Apologies, Dave! First time on here so not overly familiar with protocol.
Otherwise, Stu, I did post it on another site five days earlier, and thought I'd post it on here as an opening shot. Maybe you've seen it there?
Otherwise, Stu, I did post it on another site five days earlier, and thought I'd post it on here as an opening shot. Maybe you've seen it there?
Welcome to the board Fenris 
I think it's good and there's a nice story flowing through here- but it reads more like prose to me. IMO it doesnt have the natural convention of poetry, but that could just be me. I think it's because of the speech marks, it reminds me too much of dialogue within a story or prose.
It's a bit too lengthy for me, i think you could definitely cut this down a bit and create line breaks to link each stanza through. I just think the structure and rhythm overall wil benefit.
Keep working on this, because as i said the story is quite intruiging
dl04.
I think it's good and there's a nice story flowing through here- but it reads more like prose to me. IMO it doesnt have the natural convention of poetry, but that could just be me. I think it's because of the speech marks, it reminds me too much of dialogue within a story or prose.
It's a bit too lengthy for me, i think you could definitely cut this down a bit and create line breaks to link each stanza through. I just think the structure and rhythm overall wil benefit.
Keep working on this, because as i said the story is quite intruiging
dl04.
' Everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go, well i dont think so but i'm gonna take a look around'
-Joni Mitchell
-Joni Mitchell
-
Gene van Troyer
- Productive Poster
- Posts: 50
- Joined: Wed Apr 16, 2008 8:31 am
Hmm. A science fiction poem. I've highlighted parts in red that I think could be edited out or changed.
He gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, rooling down
sheer sheets of glass in rivulets (cut)
to pool in hopeless futility (cut)
on sill and ledge.
Attributing feeling to water is serious mistake a sci-fi context unless you're going to follow through and establish that the water is also somehow sentient later on. Otherwise people like me are going to wonder why you imply that water has any sense of futility or hopelessness.
He could not remember
how long he had been here,
indeed, he was not entirely sure
of time’s passage at all,
merely measuring his life
in periods of damp or dry,
of humidity or aridity. (cut)
The above is contradictory. He does measure time and interval. Whether you mark intervals by dampness or dryness or night and day, moon phase or stars in the night sky zodiac, you have a sense of time's passage and hence of duration. He knows he has been there for X dry and wet spells. The last line can be cut because it repeats the preceding line.
Of course, everyone here
was pretty much the same, (cut)
here in this white-tiled purgatory
was in the same fix:
the days seemed endless
as the world turned
on a rusting showerhead.
"Was pretty much the same" is flat and imprecise. It can stand to be deleted without doing harm to the poem. "Merged endlessly" is a cliché.
To his left a newcomer
jostled him suddenly,
trying for a glimpse
beyond the spattered windows
into some fancied nirvana.
“Do you come here often?” she asked,
hopefully peering over his shoulder.
He doesn't have any shoulders, I'm afraid, unless you're suggesting he has a skeletal form. It would be, "Trying to peer around my edges" or "peer above my surface."
Scarcely admitting her presence
he continued looking
into the abstract distance,
and answered as only
sentient slime-mould can,
“Me?" he shrugged,
"I only come here
for the condensation."
Hmmm. The old sci-fi trick ending. It's a cliché. It only works in stories at the hands of masters like Asimov, Fredric Brown, or Reginald Bretnor (Grendel Briarton), and then usually only as pun (preferably real groaners). I know, I know, you tried, but it's difficult enough to pull off in a story and even more so in a poem.
You might try a limerick or two.
Well, that's a bit rough. You might try being the slime mould from the outset, rather than trying to sneak that up on us. You can still save the comment to the other slime mould for the end and retain a humorous twist.
He gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, rooling down
sheer sheets of glass in rivulets (cut)
to pool in hopeless futility (cut)
on sill and ledge.
Attributing feeling to water is serious mistake a sci-fi context unless you're going to follow through and establish that the water is also somehow sentient later on. Otherwise people like me are going to wonder why you imply that water has any sense of futility or hopelessness.
He could not remember
how long he had been here,
indeed, he was not entirely sure
of time’s passage at all,
merely measuring his life
in periods of damp or dry,
of humidity or aridity. (cut)
The above is contradictory. He does measure time and interval. Whether you mark intervals by dampness or dryness or night and day, moon phase or stars in the night sky zodiac, you have a sense of time's passage and hence of duration. He knows he has been there for X dry and wet spells. The last line can be cut because it repeats the preceding line.
Of course, everyone here
was pretty much the same, (cut)
here in this white-tiled purgatory
was in the same fix:
the days seemed endless
as the world turned
on a rusting showerhead.
"Was pretty much the same" is flat and imprecise. It can stand to be deleted without doing harm to the poem. "Merged endlessly" is a cliché.
To his left a newcomer
jostled him suddenly,
trying for a glimpse
beyond the spattered windows
into some fancied nirvana.
“Do you come here often?” she asked,
hopefully peering over his shoulder.
He doesn't have any shoulders, I'm afraid, unless you're suggesting he has a skeletal form. It would be, "Trying to peer around my edges" or "peer above my surface."
Scarcely admitting her presence
he continued looking
into the abstract distance,
and answered as only
sentient slime-mould can,
“Me?" he shrugged,
"I only come here
for the condensation."
Hmmm. The old sci-fi trick ending. It's a cliché. It only works in stories at the hands of masters like Asimov, Fredric Brown, or Reginald Bretnor (Grendel Briarton), and then usually only as pun (preferably real groaners). I know, I know, you tried, but it's difficult enough to pull off in a story and even more so in a poem.
You might try a limerick or two.
Well, that's a bit rough. You might try being the slime mould from the outset, rather than trying to sneak that up on us. You can still save the comment to the other slime mould for the end and retain a humorous twist.
Last edited by Gene van Troyer on Fri Apr 25, 2008 3:22 pm, edited 2 times in total.
"If you don't like my principles, I have others." —Groucho Marx
Oof! You've had what amounts to an ever so polite kicking from some of these crits, Fenris, so I'm happy to say I quite like this. A bit long, I think, an over-elaborate build-up, but to a punchline that I thought was funny. (Didn't Philip K. Dick make use of sentient slime moulds? From Ganymede, as I remember.)
And some lines I particularly liked - where days merged endlessly / as the world turned / on a rusting showerhead - really liked that!
Cheers
David
And some lines I particularly liked - where days merged endlessly / as the world turned / on a rusting showerhead - really liked that!
Cheers
David
A polite kicking? Nah, never felt a thing! I don't claim to be Shakespeare, nor the guy in the sci-fi mag shop on the Simpsons (Gene, my friend, you take things too seriously). It was a poem that kind of developed as it went along, without ever really having a tale to tell/point to make in the first place. Just something I did to pass the time one afternoon teabreak as a kind of neo-tribute to what some have described as another form of life. Ah, the futility and the hopelessness . . .
Im new on here so dont feel qualified to comment too much on others words.
In general I like the words but I shall only comment on the 1st verse.
He gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, running down
sheer glass sheets in rivulets
to pool in hopeless futility
on sill and ledge.
Personally I quite like this, my imagination likes the idea of the poor little rivlets that would obviously much rather be a waterfall, running down the glass to pool and evaporate on a window ledge....how frustrating is that, espescially if you are the rivulet in question. Who cares that water doesnt have feelings ... it can in a poem ??
Anyway that my opinion for what its worth.
In general I like the words but I shall only comment on the 1st verse.
He gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, running down
sheer glass sheets in rivulets
to pool in hopeless futility
on sill and ledge.
Personally I quite like this, my imagination likes the idea of the poor little rivlets that would obviously much rather be a waterfall, running down the glass to pool and evaporate on a window ledge....how frustrating is that, espescially if you are the rivulet in question. Who cares that water doesnt have feelings ... it can in a poem ??
Anyway that my opinion for what its worth.
Criticism - The art of judging with knowledge and propriety of the beauties and faults of a literary performance. Ha ..Well I'm definitely gonna fall short there....However rules is rules.