Poetry Forum

It fills the room and strokes each wall,
a stale and stagnant, smoky pall
as if the seasons stalled and stuck late autumn,
and time lay still awaiting its' post-mortem.
Soft moans escape from rambling lips,
the sound of silk on fingertips.
Sweat congregates upon my skin
yet emptiness pervades within.
She ponders words which are not hers,
can we not stop and press reverse?
The unsteady hum of early morning traffic
ascending to this pitch where psychopathic
voices whisper, whine and hiss,
"I cannot take much more of this!"
There are those who gawped too long in mausoleums
became themselves the very stuffing of museums.
Sentences both short and long
pace the space where time is hung
and strung out on a line, its' fingers flapping,
admit defeat, it's to this beat your feet are tapping.

Ray, I found the meter to be rough on this one I understand it is not a sonnet but the reading of it causes me to break and buck in the longer lines and fall over the short lines. Couplets should be a little closer in foot, and line.
Another problem is that I feel that after reading it a few times the subject of empty space is lost, to much attention was given to the rhyme and not enough thought went into the subject,

I have to agree with Mike, the rhyme possibly felt a little contrived at times and did seem to stutter, however, there is some great lines in this;

"...the sound of silk on fingertips."

Some great lines, and some of the rhyme is good, yet some of it forced...

I think there are great possibilities with this - which is dependent however, on maintaining the standard when playing about with the clunky lines...

In my opinion , these are the clunky bits...IMO, the lines highlighted are the main ones...

as if the seasons stalled and stuck late autumn,
and time lay still awaiting its' post-mortem.

She ponders words which are not hers,
can we not stop and press reverse?

The unsteady hum of early morning traffic
ascending to this pitch where psychopathic

There are those who gawped too long in mausoleums
became themselves the very stuffing of museums.

and strung out on a line, its' fingers flapping,
admit defeat, it's to this beat your feet are tapping.

Look forward to any changes

ray,

I'm not a big fan of strong, regular rhyming poetry. But I did just want to say there were some nice flows and phrases in here. Agree with what has been said about meter and whathaveyounot though. If a poem is going to rhyme and flow, the rhythm must be very tight and I think it drifts in places.

Tom

Do I detect a lot of Eliot influence in this? Seems very Prufrocky. I like it, but it could be a lot better if you tightened up the meter, it gets a little loose in the second half.

Not too keen on -

as if the seasons stalled and stuck late autumn, --- Could you not use delayed autumn / held back autumn / held up autumn, instead?

good one

Barrie

The alternating (but not strictly alternating) four- and five-beat lines make for quite a rough read, as Mike has pointed out, but some of the lines themselves - in isolation - are rather good. Still, "Emptiness pervades within" is a bit portentous, and it didn't help me to get a clear and consistent idea of your train of thought.

Mind you, there is a certain mood that this evokes, and it does it pretty well.

I'm not sure if you're using mausoleums in a literal or a metaphorical sense.

I think that's a good call by Barrie on the Prufrockiness of this. I didn't spot it myself, but now he's mentioned it it seems inescapable.

Not a resounding success, then, but not a flat failure either. There's a lot of promise in this.

Cheers

David

That's most perceptive, barrie, especially as I'd forgotten where this had originated myself!
It has all come flooding back. The line "sentences both short and long" nods in acknowledgement at the uneven metre,which I'd noticed in Eliot's work-or some of it.
I have to agree about the third line, don't like it myself, probably "as if the seasons faltered in late autumn" would be better.
Yes, some of the lines are awkward but I like most of the words, particularly the last two. I was meant to portray the sense of burn-out and quiet despair which Eliot did so well.