Poetry Forum

Revision:

The smoke is spectacular from here,
smoldering piles kindled against the frost.
We should have wrapped the plum trees
in August, winched them tightly with bandages
as if they were broken. But we forgot.

“When I grew up everyone had a ditch bag.”
He says, matter of fact.
His father taught him
to pack it carefully at eleven,
when he could still see.
Detachment came at seventeen,
parted with both retinas
and never looked back, he smirks.

“I called you first.”
Proudly, purposeful,
his voice milky pink.
He wants to hold me all night,
our bodies huddled in his dark.
"Human contact", he stated
as if he were an anthropologist
scribbling out rhetoric on both haunches;
Come, come now,
while the leather ditch bag
waits in the closet.

We didn't know what morning would look like;
smoke bled out sputtering brightness,
ascended from smudge pots
as dingy as that gaping,fucking ditch bag in the closet
(yes, I tell him, I keep coming back to that.).
A gun, a passport, several hundred dollars,
“In case” he says.

I close my eyes;
He once was well gaffed,
fingers drumming,
lit a torch he could not see.
We plunged forth determined,
tarred and blazing martyrs.
Those frantic nights of billowing hot,
clutched lanterns slung in fury.
I shambled toward the dawn
with ash-cupped lungs,
plumbed the orchard for swollen fruit,
but nothing was saved after all.

He's pumped and hinged,
crackles when he walks; has to go now,
He's told me once that
he doesn't even try anymore
to imagine what I look like.
He still keeps a ditch bag in his closet.

***************************
Original Poem:

The smoke is spectacular from here,
little smoldering piles kindled against the frost.
We should have wrapped the plum trees
in August, winched them tightly with bandages
as if they were broken. But we forgot.

“When I grew up everyone had a ditch bag.”
He says, matter of fact.
His detachment came at seventeen,
parted with both retinas
and never looked back, he smirks.

“I called you first.”
Proudly, his voice bulbous,
milky pink.
He wants to hold me all night,
our bodies huddled in his dark.
"Human contact", he stated
as if he were an anthropologist
scribbling out rhetoric on both haunches;
Come, come now,
while his father's leather bag
waits in the closet.

We didn't know what morning would look like;
smog bleeding the sputtering brightness,
smoke lifting out of smudge pots
as dingy as that gaping,fucking ditch bag in the closet
(yes, I tell him, I keep coming back to that.).
A gun, a passport, several hundred dollars,
“In case” he says.

I close my eyes;
He once was well gaffed,
fingers drumming,
lit a torch he could not see.
We plunged forth determined,
blazing Roman martyrs.
Those frantic nights of billowing hot,
clutched lanterns slung in fury.
I shambled toward the dawn
with ash-cupped lungs,
plumbed ditches for swollen fruit,
but nothing was saved after all.
I loved myself too late.

He's pumped and hinged,
crackles when he walks; has to go now,
swallows a torching hunger.
He's told me once that
he doesn't even try anymore to imagine
what people look like.
He still keeps a ditch bag in his closet.

Wow. A few typos, but wow.

B.

Hi, Kim - it's good to see you back.

Even if you'd changed your monicker completely, there'd be no mistaking your style.

S1 in particular is trademark Kim.

Unfortunately for me, I can't put it all together so, at least for the moment, the penultimate stanza (with its repetition of
the title) is eluding me.


I'd be tempted to take another look at the final stanza:

"Torching" doesn't work for me although I like the Flame-swallower metaphor.

Also
He's told me once that
he doesn't even try anymore to imagine
what people look like.
- seems a tad long-winded.

To quote Brian, "WOW"
Geoff

twoleftfeet wrote:S1 in particular is trademark Kim.

Indeed. And is, therefore, absolutely excellent.

I'm not sure what a ditch bag is, though.

Very good to see you back.

Cheers

David

It would be churlish to claim I didn't enjoy this, because I did. Considerably. Many lines are admirable, and some show (to my mind) flashes of brilliance. The simple (but inspirational) act of ascribing an ownership to the dark ("his dark") sets it well apart from the average and flags an experienced pen.

For me, though, it's not unflawed (but what is?). Some repetitions jarred (ditch bag, torch), some images a bit inflated or forced. My main reservation, though is thematic - it just seemed a trifle (sorry) self-indulgent, me-focused, ego-driven for my taste - no wider point to be drawn from it.

But that's just my taste - it's certainly expressed well.

cheers
peter

Arian wrote: self-indulgent, me-focused, ego-driven ... - no wider point to be drawn from it.

Oh dear. If that were true, that no wider point could be drawn from the kind of poetry you describe (not that I agree with such a harsh description being applied to this poem) I'm afraid that would render a great deal of the poetical canon as useless. Being unable to draw anything from the self-indulgent thoughts of others would surely lead to a very cold and lonely existence!

Still enjoying this again today Kim, but Peter does make a good point about the repetitions. Perhaps worth looking at. Also, I'm in two minds about the title being repeated in the poem.

B.

Hi, pleased to meet you.
Enjoyed it. Not sure I quite understood the overall drift, but enjoyed the general expression of attitude towards a person.

from here,

Why qualify?

smog bleeding the sputtering brightness,

Not entirely sure that I get the idea of smog bleeding something...probably me.

He once was well gaffed,
fingers drumming,

like that.

Roman martyrs.

Roman?

He's pumped and hinged,
crackles when he walks

Again liked that.

Cheers
Ant

Yes I'd give it a "wow"

I'd also agree that it needs honing, for example:

"Proudly, his voice bulbous,
milky pink."

The poem seems very excited with itself, and there are phrases (as above) that just don't make any sense, figuratively or metaphorically.

But on the whole, an exhilarating read.

A fine return

K.

Some superb writing here. Unless I mention it, assume that I thought it was excellent, OK?

My major issue is with the line "I loved myself too late". I think it's weak and Oprah-ish; out of place in a good sinewy poem like this. I almost didn't even click through to read it with this as the title. I thought it would be drivel.

I think you could lose "after all". "But nothing was saved" by itself would be starker and "after all" is unnecessarily wistful, I think.

I also think it tails off a bit in the last verse. The first three lines here are very ambiguous; I just don't know why the hunger is "torching" (though that is a nice expression), or in what way he could be "pumped". Next three lines are OK though and the last one is appropriate.

As I said, this is mostly great. My favourite bits: lines 3-5. "His voice bulbous, / milky pink". The image of the haunched anthropologist. "Ash-cupped lungs" and the assonance of "lungs" and "plumbed".

absolutely agree with k j about the title.

Like a lot about the poem. Sinewy is a good description.

Michaela

Hello Everyone,
Its so good to be back! My absence had little to do with you and all to do with me. I've been rebuilding my life the last two or three years. It's taken all of my creative juices but now they are coming back to me in bits. Honestly, this is the first poem of substance that wasn't scribbled on napkins and margins in a long time. I appreciate your honestly and critiques.

Yes, the title seemed a little trite--a little Oprah-ish as someone pointed out. I agree--so I fear I will have to go with the simple title of "Ditch Bag" because I absolutely suck at titling anything.

I didn't know what a ditch bag was either until I met a friend who always had one packed in his closet. He told me his girlfriend was upset by this and he couldn't fathom why. It was perfectly normal to him to live like he was running from the CIA (he wasn't) and couldn't understand why that would pose a problem in a relationship with a woman. Kind of an anti-nesting attitude.

He and I have known each other for the last ten years and soon after his break up he asked if I wanted to 'be' with him. I declined because of our friendship because I wasn't sure I wanted that to change. So for this poem (too much disclosure?) I combined this gentlemen as the lead character with elements of my relationship (as seen in the orchard) with my ex-husband. I liked the idea of fighting all night long to keep the orchard from frost, battling by qualities of light and fire that the main character can't even see.

KJ's suggestion of removing 'after all" on the line: "But nothing was saved after all." is being taken in consideration. I kind of liked the wistfulness as it was personal. After all that work, the torching, the forced warmth, the effort over the years. After all of that...nothing was saved.

I agree that 'His voice bulbous, milky pink" was overdone so I left out bulbous. "Milky pink" referred to its smooth, girlishness and manipulative tone of how he just wanted to 'hold me'. I am not sure even now that is coming through. I qualified "from here" in the opening line as if I am sitting above all of it. Its over and done--I'm the surveyor. But maybe that is too much tell and not enough show. I dunno....

Arian pointed out the forced repetitions which I tried to tone down. But thank you for defending 'ego driven'--well, it is a poem about me. I'm not sure that is a bad thing and after all I am an only child. LOL. Most of my poems are driven by personal experience so I'm not sure what to say about that. But I come here to receive criticism and not only am I not afraid of it--I most certainly welcome it. There are not many wonderful places like our little salon on the internet.

So I revised it--not sure if it's considerably better but certainly a start. Let me know if the changes are appropriate.
Cheers,
JB

brianedwards wrote:Being unable to draw anything from the self-indulgent thoughts of others would surely lead to a very cold and lonely existence!

A fair enough point, Brian. Something in that view.

But even if there is, there remains the question of how the poet expresses their thoughts. And perhaps, in this case, I chose the wrong - or, at least, suboptimal - words to describe my reservations. Perhaps Kris put my own thoughts better, by describing the tone of the piece as "..very excited with itself." It's a tone which I (and I'm perfectly happy if it's just me) don't especially care for. Still, as I say, a lot to admire in the piece, too.

Cheers
peter

juliadebeauvoir45 wrote:
KJ's suggestion of removing 'after all" on the line: "But nothing was saved after all." is being taken in consideration. I kind of liked the wistfulness as it was personal. After all that work, the torching, the forced warmth, the effort over the years. After all of that...nothing was saved.

IMHO "after all" is essential.
The tragedy is that N's selflessness has been counter-productive: they both lose out.
The original title may have been somewhat melodramatic and self-aware, but I can see why it was chosen and why it was repeated after "But nothing was saved after all."

twoleftfeet wrote: The tragedy is that N's selflessness has been counter-productive: they both lose out.
The original title may have been somewhat melodramatic and self-aware, but I can see why it was chosen and why it was repeated after "But nothing was saved after all."

But would you have known that without the explanation in this thread? For me the poem does an excellent job of linking the loss of land and fruit to fire and frost with the loss of love, but it doesn't fully capture (nor should it) the story JdB tells in her comment. I agree that in hindsight, having seen the comment, these lines make sense, but I don't think they belong in the poem.

I think the lines "I loved myself too late" resonate with females who have taken a more submissive role in their relationships. Most of us (at least in my age bracket) have mothers who grew up in the forties. We learned from them that putting others ahead of self is paramount. I am certainly not saying men do not do this but at least its been more traditional for women to be cast as care-takers. I did that for a long time. Kind of like the old adage that if their are six pieces of pie and seven people, your mother will suddenly not like pie. Well now I want my own effing piece of pie...lol.
So how do you express it without over sentiment--this loss? I"m not sure there is a way to do that. I read it over and tried to incorporate that the poem was excited as cam said in his critique. Hard to be objective about it. The question is do I need to strip this baby down again and start removing verses?

juliadebeauvoir45 wrote:I think the lines "I loved myself too late" resonate with females who have taken a more submissive role in their relationships. Most of us (at least in my age bracket) have mothers who grew up in the forties. We learned from them that putting others ahead of self is paramount. I am certainly not saying men do not do this but at least its been more traditional for women to be cast as care-takers. I did that for a long time. Kind of like the old adage that if their are six pieces of pie and seven people, your mother will suddenly not like pie. Well now I want my own effing piece of pie...lol.
So how do you express it without over sentiment--this loss? I"m not sure there is a way to do that.

Yes there is - write a poem about it. It's just that this isn't it. At least, I while I totally understand and agree with your thesis, and likewise get - or thought I got - this poem, I totally wouldn't have got this from the poem. Congratulations for coming clean, but for me this is an example of how one can enjoy a poem without having a clue what it's really about. I think here the problem is that you don't describe the relationship well enough for strangers to understand it. This may be what Peter's getting at with the "me" thing, which I do sympathise with.

The question is do I need to strip this baby down again and start removing verses?

No, it's a good poem as is, but if you wanted to work on it I think you could.

twoleftfeet wrote: The tragedy is that N's selflessness has been counter-productive: they both lose out.
The original title may have been somewhat melodramatic and self-aware, but I can see why it was chosen and why it was repeated after "But nothing was saved after all."

k-j wrote: But would you have known that without the explanation in this thread? For me the poem does an excellent job of linking the loss of land and fruit to fire and frost with the loss of love, but it doesn't fully capture (nor should it) the story JdB tells in her comment. I agree that in hindsight, having seen the comment, these lines make sense, but I don't think they belong in the poem.

Yes.
But then again, being familiar with Kim's poetry, I know how big a part the psychology of relationships plays.
If this was the first of her poems that I'd read .. ? Maybe not (but maybe yes )

I think that if those lines are removed then my reading of the poem will change completely - I will see N's dread of the ditch-bag solely as a fear that her lover is going to run out on her. (Just my opinion, of course).

Very good revision, I think. The only bits I still have trouble with are "his voice milky pink" (which for me doesn't do what you want it to do), and "He once was well gaffed" (which I just don't understand - to me it either means he had a nice house or he was stabbed repeatedly with a pointed stick).

And, I have to say, the point that kj made: that your poem, great as it is (and it is), doesn't seem to say to a reader - or some readers - what you want it to say. Is that a problem? Maybe not. You still have a great poem.

Cheers

David

k-j wrote:[This may be what Peter's getting at with the "me" thing, which I do sympathise with.

Yes, in that general area, certainly. The way I see it is that we all have the egocentric tendency to think that our thoughts and feelings are of interest to others. And they may well be. But - intrinsically - they're unlikely to be. It's the job of the poet to make the outside world care about the way they see things, otherwise you end up with an egoistic, non-referenced (for others) wail. For me, despite some (many?) unarguably good lines, this piece as a whole fails to escape the trap of narrow self-interest; self-excitement. For that reason, sorry if this sounds a bit Benthamist, I'd say it wasn't a good poem.

k-j wrote:this is an example of how one can enjoy a poem without having a clue what it's really about.

Yep, perfectly fair observation. It's true, we can all enjoy a piece without knowing what it's on about. Indeed, there's an influential school of thought that claims that the poet's intention is not merely irrelevant, but actually inimical to good poetry - the idea, as most of us know, behind the so-called "intentional fallacy". But I'm not a believer in that, I'm afraid, although I can sometimes succumb to impenetrable versifying. Usually, my poetic enjoyment tends towards the post-modern: that is, it demands some kind of narrative coherence and broad philosophical direction.

Anyway, sorry about the mammoth post - my longest ever, don't know what came over me. Ignore me. (As If you need to be urged).

Cheers
peter

Hello JdB, I don't think we've met on here before.

It looks like I'm very late to this one but I just thought I'd drop in and let you know how much I like this piece, excellent read. I really like the central conceit of the ditch bag and the repeats of it through the poem (including that cheeky self-referential one).

Great opening, love that second line in particular.

The smirk in the last line of S2 seems a bit odd to me, should the "and never looked back" be in speech marks or something?

'Proudly, purposeful' in S3 seems a bit of a mouthful. I enjoy a bit of alliteration as much as the next chap, but this just seems to cause a bump in an otherwise smooth flow.

I think there's a minor typo S2 L2, shouldn't that be a lower case h at the start?

What's 'gaffed'? I don't get that bit, to me a gaff is a house?

Other than that a very enjoyable read, I look forward to seeing more.

Cheers,
Nash.

Hi Kim

Great to see you back and with a language rich contribution that is typical of your style.

I like it and I particularly like the recurring ditch bag. I had no idea what it was until I googled it - now I feel every one should have one!!

We have exchanged before on the idea that a poem needs to be felt and that the feeling can come from the layering of the images. On first read, I didn't completely get the literal narrative in the story but I still got the poem - the images both literal and metaphorical work to create the sense of a lost relationship. I do agree its not the poem you thought you had written and definitely so without the "I loved myself too late" line and title.... but it is a very fine poem.

Can I make a couple of observations? If you want the literal narrative to come a little more to the fore you may want to look at the tenses - thats assuming that I am reading stanzas 1 and 4 as being in the past. Stanza 4 is a memory is it not, so maybe introduce past tense.

I think you could thin out some language so that the true gems stand out. I am not a huge fan of

Proudly, purposeful,
his voice milky pink.

maybe also a modifier or two in the penultimate stanza could go.

One final observation. I misread

We should have wrapped the plum trees
in August

thinking it was August you should have wrapped around the plum trees rather than doing the wrapping in August - but the more I read the more I love the idea of wrapping trees in the warmth of a summer month. I hope that is what you meant.

Plaudits

elph

Hello Kim. What happened to all the un- words? Not a single one! I prefer the original title - ditch bag is a bit too close to douche-bag. Or this

We didn't know what morning would look like

I loved this, I know I shouldn't but I did.

Detachment came at seventeen,
parted with both retinas
and never looked back, he smirks.

I like the smoke bled....
but here is the worst part of the poem, I think.

as dingy as that gaping,fucking ditch bag in the closet
(yes, I tell him, I keep coming back to that.).

Seems at odds with the rest and, yes, the repetition drags a bit.
I loved all this bit.
Those frantic nights of billowing hot,
clutched lanterns slung in fury.
I shambled toward the dawn
with ash-cupped lungs,
plumbed the orchard for swollen fruit,
but nothing was saved after all

well gaffed? Sounds like something a London gangster might say.

Lovely poem, enjoyed it a lot.