It's odd to think we won't be young,
some day,
when that brief
verdant face of yours,
breathless
like a grimacing phantom
in the camera's flash,
doesn't seem so exciting.
When our dream-like moon
isn't a scintilla
in the rim of your eyeball,
but hard,
under the feet of the first settlers.
When Saturn's conquered,
and the moments we thought celestial
are fizzled into iconic symbols
on clothing
I don't even know the name of yet.
What happened to that picture
of us,
the one with an auspicious Mars in your palm?
It slipped away-
like our wish of Gods,
diets and those quirky manifestos-
into that antique cabinet,
grey and suffocated,
since the photo developed without us.
Pictures When We Were Fashionable (Formerly Shellsuits)
Hey Dave, admitting that your title is tentative is just going to cause confusion, but - because I can't connect it to the poem itself - I can understand why you have. I'm not sure what a better title would be. At present it sets up expectations of - from whatever view point - the stereotypical picture of your actual "chav" or whatever the press is calling the lumpenproletariat now.
The poem itself, though, appears to be about (in simplistic terms, which is what I'm happiest with) the passing of time. Memento mori. However, I don't get the astronomical references, which I think are probably crucial.
I think the final verse is deftly handled, and brings the poem to a satisfying conclusion but - because I'm so fuzzy about what it actually said - I can't tell just how satisfying. It's got a nice feeling of closure though.
So, I like it, but I'm stretching for a literal understanding of it. Should I be? Care to explicate? Or is that not the point? I'm intrigued, anyway.
I'm not sure how helpful that is. A bit, at least, anyway, I hope.
Cheers
David
The poem itself, though, appears to be about (in simplistic terms, which is what I'm happiest with) the passing of time. Memento mori. However, I don't get the astronomical references, which I think are probably crucial.
I think the final verse is deftly handled, and brings the poem to a satisfying conclusion but - because I'm so fuzzy about what it actually said - I can't tell just how satisfying. It's got a nice feeling of closure though.
So, I like it, but I'm stretching for a literal understanding of it. Should I be? Care to explicate? Or is that not the point? I'm intrigued, anyway.
I'm not sure how helpful that is. A bit, at least, anyway, I hope.
Cheers
David
Hiya Wab.
I could be wrong but I'm assuming this is about the photograph Neil Armstrong took of Buzz Aldrin during the moon landing.
If so its a nice little commentary on the passing of time/ memory and, for them personally, youth.
If not, I'm stumped.
Minst.
I could be wrong but I'm assuming this is about the photograph Neil Armstrong took of Buzz Aldrin during the moon landing.
If so its a nice little commentary on the passing of time/ memory and, for them personally, youth.
If not, I'm stumped.
Minst.
That's really helpful, thanks David.
The title I chose was a bit flippant and I'm glad you've faulted it. I've been thinking about renaming it to: 'When won't we be fashionable?' or something along those lines. Still, it's vague.
As for the poem, well, it's a bit frustrating that it's not clear. That seems to be something I really cannot manage to pull off at the moment, and I often either wrote too obliquely or completely miss the mark. I know some say writing aphoristically is the way forward, but if the reader can't understand the poem then it's virtually pointless.
Here's a quick explanation (which I hope the new title makes clearer): it's about that feeling of not feeling 'the important' generation anymore, about not being the demographic for advertisements anymore, and being caught up in a world that has discovered all you used to treasure (does that explain the astronomical references?). Is that any help? Does the poem work?
Now, I know you're a fan of ED like I am so perhaps you could help me see something for a minute. Do you find her poetry (or letters) ever becoming too obscure and over-complicated? When I think of a poet who really makes you work I think of her. I don't want to be like her and make the reader fly off into an intellectual quandary or anything, but I do like to be a little vague (I like offering what I'm saying but not giving it). Have I just missed the mark with this? Should I be a little simpler? Sorry to ask such an annoying question, but this whole clarity thing has been troubling me recently!
I appreciate any answers!
Thanks for the crit,
Dave
The title I chose was a bit flippant and I'm glad you've faulted it. I've been thinking about renaming it to: 'When won't we be fashionable?' or something along those lines. Still, it's vague.
As for the poem, well, it's a bit frustrating that it's not clear. That seems to be something I really cannot manage to pull off at the moment, and I often either wrote too obliquely or completely miss the mark. I know some say writing aphoristically is the way forward, but if the reader can't understand the poem then it's virtually pointless.
Here's a quick explanation (which I hope the new title makes clearer): it's about that feeling of not feeling 'the important' generation anymore, about not being the demographic for advertisements anymore, and being caught up in a world that has discovered all you used to treasure (does that explain the astronomical references?). Is that any help? Does the poem work?
Now, I know you're a fan of ED like I am so perhaps you could help me see something for a minute. Do you find her poetry (or letters) ever becoming too obscure and over-complicated? When I think of a poet who really makes you work I think of her. I don't want to be like her and make the reader fly off into an intellectual quandary or anything, but I do like to be a little vague (I like offering what I'm saying but not giving it). Have I just missed the mark with this? Should I be a little simpler? Sorry to ask such an annoying question, but this whole clarity thing has been troubling me recently!
I appreciate any answers!
Thanks for the crit,
Dave
After re-reading, the 'verdant' in skull reference (which I assumed was space helmet) and verdant being part of the reflection, refered more to the picture of Harrison Schmidt, where apparently hedges and greenery could be seen. aka: 'did we really land on the moon'? bollocks.
Which doesn't matter anyroad, in light of your (yes I'm still stumped) explanation.
Will try again.
Which doesn't matter anyroad, in light of your (yes I'm still stumped) explanation.
Will try again.
Dave, it does make more sense now you lay it out like that. And I agree, it is frustrating when something that, to you, seems - not obvious, but fairly easily decipherable - just baffles everyone. I've been there myself.
Yes, ED is sometimes just plain inscrutable. She's a sphinx, the little minx. Part of that, though, is the sheer compactness of what she writes. She's not a voluble writer at all. Here's a perfect example -
I fit for them,
I seek the dark till I am thorough fit.
The labor is a solemn one,
With this sufficient sweet—
That abstinence as mine produce
A purer good for them,
If I succeed,—
If not, I had
The transport of the Aim.
Woah. My head hurts.
That's what Harold Bloom (I nicked this from The Western Canon) calls "forty-five words in nine lines to break our heads upon". In relation to understanding her poems, he talks about "unpacking" them, making the meaning apparent. Of course, when you and I are reading Mizz Emily, we are prepared to give ourselves headaches, in the belief that the effort will be worthwhile. A lot of people, understandably, can't be bothered - still less when they encounter some dense and knotty thing that you and I have wrought, when they have no reason to believe the reward of struggling with it will be commensurate with the effort.
Erm. Where am I? Yes, your poem!
It's hard. I'm not equipped to run any kind of poetry masterclass, but maybe a few random thoughts will help. I hope so.
1. "Archaic" may set people on the wrong track. "Old-fashioned" or "obsolescent" instead?
2. "Brief verdant skull" is a great phrase, but I find it puzzling. I can kind of see, in the light of your explanation, that it's about ephemerality, mortality and all that, but maybe "skull" is too strong a word for the image. Too much memento mori.
3. Equally, the "rim of your eye-ball" is such a powerful image that it may overwhelm what you're getting at, and I couldn't see what you meant by "where my finger last touched". (It set me off thinking about Un chien andalou, which I can't believe is what you intended.)
4. Now I think I understand the astronomical bits, the final frontiers we used to have that are now no longer final, I like this bit.
5. What happened to that picture / of us, / the one with Mars in your palm? This lends itself so well to Minstrel's interpretation, which completely convinced me when I read it, that it came as quite a surprise to discover that interpretation was wrong!
6. Now I can definitely see what you're getting at in your final stanza.
So, the moral of all this is ... I dunno. Should I be a little simpler? Yes, I think so, but that's just me. Don't forget how breathtakingly simple ED can be, and yet she is still, always, astonishing. A great poetic role model, to be sure, but so hard to live up to. Good luck with it!
I have wittered on a bit, haven't I. In words that I know Keith would endorse, "when the Lord made me, He made a rambling man". I hope you can pick something useful out of it.
Cheers
David
P.S. I also ended up thinking of this ...
Oh, what happened to you
Whatever happened to me?
And what became of the
people we used to be?
Tomorrow's almost over,
Today went by so fast,
Is the only thing to look
forward to - the past?
Nothong to be ashamed of - one of my favourite programmes!
Yes, ED is sometimes just plain inscrutable. She's a sphinx, the little minx. Part of that, though, is the sheer compactness of what she writes. She's not a voluble writer at all. Here's a perfect example -
I fit for them,
I seek the dark till I am thorough fit.
The labor is a solemn one,
With this sufficient sweet—
That abstinence as mine produce
A purer good for them,
If I succeed,—
If not, I had
The transport of the Aim.
Woah. My head hurts.
That's what Harold Bloom (I nicked this from The Western Canon) calls "forty-five words in nine lines to break our heads upon". In relation to understanding her poems, he talks about "unpacking" them, making the meaning apparent. Of course, when you and I are reading Mizz Emily, we are prepared to give ourselves headaches, in the belief that the effort will be worthwhile. A lot of people, understandably, can't be bothered - still less when they encounter some dense and knotty thing that you and I have wrought, when they have no reason to believe the reward of struggling with it will be commensurate with the effort.
Erm. Where am I? Yes, your poem!
It's hard. I'm not equipped to run any kind of poetry masterclass, but maybe a few random thoughts will help. I hope so.
1. "Archaic" may set people on the wrong track. "Old-fashioned" or "obsolescent" instead?
2. "Brief verdant skull" is a great phrase, but I find it puzzling. I can kind of see, in the light of your explanation, that it's about ephemerality, mortality and all that, but maybe "skull" is too strong a word for the image. Too much memento mori.
3. Equally, the "rim of your eye-ball" is such a powerful image that it may overwhelm what you're getting at, and I couldn't see what you meant by "where my finger last touched". (It set me off thinking about Un chien andalou, which I can't believe is what you intended.)
4. Now I think I understand the astronomical bits, the final frontiers we used to have that are now no longer final, I like this bit.
5. What happened to that picture / of us, / the one with Mars in your palm? This lends itself so well to Minstrel's interpretation, which completely convinced me when I read it, that it came as quite a surprise to discover that interpretation was wrong!
6. Now I can definitely see what you're getting at in your final stanza.
So, the moral of all this is ... I dunno. Should I be a little simpler? Yes, I think so, but that's just me. Don't forget how breathtakingly simple ED can be, and yet she is still, always, astonishing. A great poetic role model, to be sure, but so hard to live up to. Good luck with it!
I have wittered on a bit, haven't I. In words that I know Keith would endorse, "when the Lord made me, He made a rambling man". I hope you can pick something useful out of it.
Cheers
David
P.S. I also ended up thinking of this ...
Oh, what happened to you
Whatever happened to me?
And what became of the
people we used to be?
Tomorrow's almost over,
Today went by so fast,
Is the only thing to look
forward to - the past?
Nothong to be ashamed of - one of my favourite programmes!
That's really useful, thanks David -
I'm going to have to cut out some of the phrases I like but I think I can just about make this hospitable.
Anyway, ignoring this feeble effort... Emily Dickinson:
Sometimes with her writing (as Bloom points out) you almost have to be scientific - I sometimes find myself, when reading her poetry, switching off for little moments and realising I've completely glazed over an entire stanza.
The thing I find so amusing is that her letters are just as bad. And these are the sort of things she's sending to her friends as correspondence.
Try this:
We are by September and yet my flowers are bold as June. Amherst has gone to Eden.
To shut our eyes is Travel.
The Seasons understand this.
How lonesome to be an article! I mean - to have no soul.
An apple fell in the night and a Wagon stopped.
I suppose the Wagon ate the apple and resumed it's way.
How fine it is to talk.
What Miracles the News is!
Not Bismark but ourselves.
You can sort of follow he progression, but at times it's just numbing.
But yes, it is worthwhile working her work out -
Some of her letters though (which as you can probably tell, I'm a huge fan of) are utterly superb. I would suggest, if there's an online archive of them, looking for the ones written about her Nephew Gilbert.
Anyway, back to the point -
Thanks very much for your crit, I will work on this later.
Dave
I'm going to have to cut out some of the phrases I like but I think I can just about make this hospitable.
Anyway, ignoring this feeble effort... Emily Dickinson:
Sometimes with her writing (as Bloom points out) you almost have to be scientific - I sometimes find myself, when reading her poetry, switching off for little moments and realising I've completely glazed over an entire stanza.
The thing I find so amusing is that her letters are just as bad. And these are the sort of things she's sending to her friends as correspondence.
Try this:
We are by September and yet my flowers are bold as June. Amherst has gone to Eden.
To shut our eyes is Travel.
The Seasons understand this.
How lonesome to be an article! I mean - to have no soul.
An apple fell in the night and a Wagon stopped.
I suppose the Wagon ate the apple and resumed it's way.
How fine it is to talk.
What Miracles the News is!
Not Bismark but ourselves.
You can sort of follow he progression, but at times it's just numbing.
But yes, it is worthwhile working her work out -
Some of her letters though (which as you can probably tell, I'm a huge fan of) are utterly superb. I would suggest, if there's an online archive of them, looking for the ones written about her Nephew Gilbert.
Anyway, back to the point -
Thanks very much for your crit, I will work on this later.
Dave
I thought you would have read a lot of her letters since you've read Sewall's (intimidatingly) extensive Life .
I have about 60 pages left.
My favourite letter is on page 604.
Anyway, I've done an extensive re-write. It secures the tenses, tightens the links and (hopefully) makes the meaning a lot clearer.
Does it live up to that prologue?
Thanks for any re-reads.
Dave
I have about 60 pages left.
My favourite letter is on page 604.
Anyway, I've done an extensive re-write. It secures the tenses, tightens the links and (hopefully) makes the meaning a lot clearer.
Does it live up to that prologue?
Thanks for any re-reads.
Dave