“I paint my own reality. ...I paint whatever passes through my head
without any other consideration.”
-Fride Kahlo
Frida, you’re my watermelon
after a midnight siesta
with the juice that must be burnt away
like a sunset
with black seeds riveted
like a cave full of bats,
then shot out of my mouth
with a Gatling gun
and the huge slice
of your self portraits
more ambient than a crescent moon
more fragrant than camellias growing in smokestacks
more defiant than a beaten horse against the whip
rearing into the ruckus hush
into the sweet pulp of the forbidden self
as sweetly forgetful
as opium and movie house chocolates
you and your lover devoured
while watching news reels of Hitler
and a bad wire act over Manhattan.
Diego, you poor moon chaser
however big
you wanted to paint
ants crawled into your eyes,
and like a stray hound lost and cornered
you could only bark at the emptiness of a canvas
but for a blind man you were forever
her eye’s delight.
Frida when you painted
bedridden in the militia of blanket
in a cosmopolis of wild boars
every grievous stricken worm
kept writhing in your earth
your hand taming the spotted brush
growling like a jaguar,
the meager sky balanced on your
rich top soil
with blue marmalade of mold dancing
on a nailed bread towered by twilight
you kept between your thumbnails, the primal color
of brand new dungarees
before the fading and the patching and the stooping
and when your brush turned the last corner
a rickety cart of jalapeno peppers
moaned like ship horns.
there are train stations weeping
there are ribbons without pins
and a whippoorwill sang of brave colors
that bear tangled souls like roots of mangrove
when colors you mixed
were laid to sleep in a glass jar
like a rare moth.
Frida
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camus
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Pretentious twaddle?
Some fine lines, interpersed with cliched nonsense.
French symbolist? - yeh of course it is.
This poem needs honing in I think.
Potential - 7
Some fine lines, interpersed with cliched nonsense.
French symbolist? - yeh of course it is.
This poem needs honing in I think.
Potential - 7
http://www.closetpoet.co.uk
Wow...that seemed harsh. I agree that it needs honing, but I think I can try to give some more specific critique.
When it comes to the beginning, I would consider taking out the two "with"s. I might also consider replacing your use of the indefinite article ("a") with either "the" or "my" to give the poem a more concrete feeling. i.e. "the midnight siesta" "the sunset" "my gatling"
More ambient than the crescent moon? I'm not exactly sure what you're getting at here - I don't know if you're using the right word. Check up on "ambient" and make sure it's really what you want.
I don't really like the repetition of the word "more" - it feels clunky and a little contrived.
I would take out entirely the line "you and your lover devoured" as it brings the poem into a concrete place I don't like so much. Better to keep it more impressionistic, in my opinion.
"ants crawling?" Otherwise, I really like this stanza.
Honestly, I have to disagree with the previous comment - I think you do an amazing job with imagery in this poem and a great job playing with language and manipulating words. It is sort of hard to get through, mostly because of its length, but none of it stands out to me as particularly unnecessary. Try to tighten it up, but you've definitely got something here, in my opinion.
When it comes to the beginning, I would consider taking out the two "with"s. I might also consider replacing your use of the indefinite article ("a") with either "the" or "my" to give the poem a more concrete feeling. i.e. "the midnight siesta" "the sunset" "my gatling"
More ambient than the crescent moon? I'm not exactly sure what you're getting at here - I don't know if you're using the right word. Check up on "ambient" and make sure it's really what you want.
I don't really like the repetition of the word "more" - it feels clunky and a little contrived.
I would take out entirely the line "you and your lover devoured" as it brings the poem into a concrete place I don't like so much. Better to keep it more impressionistic, in my opinion.
"ants crawling?" Otherwise, I really like this stanza.
Honestly, I have to disagree with the previous comment - I think you do an amazing job with imagery in this poem and a great job playing with language and manipulating words. It is sort of hard to get through, mostly because of its length, but none of it stands out to me as particularly unnecessary. Try to tighten it up, but you've definitely got something here, in my opinion.
Welcome, first of all, to the forum.
I read this first at the sphere, and whilst some of it is likeable, on the whole it doesn't do much. You see, there's simply the fact that this sort of poetry will ineviatably polarise your audience.
I'm afraid I'm in Cam's camp.
You're not really saying much beyond the fact that you can jibber out hundreds of similes that don't seem to build up to one piece of work. It often starts with a nice thought, but then procedes into what I am fond of calling 'image riffing'. You just riff with what you have, and push the logic, links and imagery of the piece into a world of distant correlations and relations. And it's all about audience. Some people may think that sort of juggling beautiful, powerful and iconoclastic. I just think it meaningless. Because there's no anchor on reality (and thus nothing to compare to) language is trivialised, not empowered. But I feel this about a lot of poets.
Here's some direct criticism, but be warned, this is entirely based on what I LIKE. I'm not being prescriptive, nor am I bludgeoning your style. I just want to show you what I as a reader thinks of this.
Frida, you’re my watermelon
after a midnight siesta
with the juice that must be burnt away
like a sunset
with black seeds riveted
like a cave full of bats,
then shot out of my mouth
with a Gatling gun -- sorry but this is really, really bad. It desperately wants to be poetic. The amount of loose, dangling tropes and conceits in this just hurts the head. The problem with it is that you have to really work all of this into one coherent sentence and, in doing so, make a lot of the writing awkward and 'and this and this and this'. It reads like the gushings of a child that has just been given a pen. There may be something in thinking 'all poets are children; poetry is innocence' etc etc, but I just think that pseudo-mystic rubbish.
more ambient than a crescent moon - ambient is a telly word. I get your drift here, but there are so many other (better) possibilities to use. 'ambient' is too vague for my tastes.
more ambient than a crescent moon
more fragrant than camellias growing in smokestacks
more defiant than a beaten horse against the whip
rearing into the ruckus hush
into the sweet pulp of the forbidden self
as sweetly forgetful
as opium and movie house chocolates
you and your lover devoured
while watching news reels of Hitler
and a bad wire act over Manhattan. - on the whole, I like this much more than the first half. That's because all of the images presented are different. It is a list, not a daft elaboration of one sort of image.
One thing about the first stanza. Is there a danger, because of all of the imagery, that you are not saying anything at all? I'm much more intrigued by Diego than I am about what Frida means to you. It seems the second stanza reaches some poetic territory wholly open to the reader.
and like a stray hound lost and cornered
you could only bark at the emptiness of a canvas - hounds bark, but I wouldn't say they bark at the canvus. You could wrench away the second half of this and have it much more effective.
(sorry to bring up stuff from another forum, but) you said talking about Deigo was entirely necessary. I completely agree. But I think you need more about him. It ends on
but for a blind man you were forever
her eye’s delight.
which is a bit of a cop out. As if you just thought he was an unecessary but obligatory inclusion for the poem. 'He had so many problems, BUT it was OK'. I'd like to see more of an examination into his lack of artistry, his difficulties, his relationship. I think that's where the poem turns from vague impressions to genuinely interesting poetry. It's just a shame it dithers away with the flotsam.
Again with S3, I'd like to hear some more detail about her paintings. The psychological process, the artistry, etc etc. At the moment you've got a string of nouns that make me indifferent to her art -- not really a desirable effect.
Because of that, S4 felt undeserved. And that's a shame because for the most part it's a cracking ending. Really. Apart from the cliche construction of 'laid to sleep' it's powerful. I just think you need to build up the artist and her surroundings (Diego) first, not your vague and garralous impressions of her art.
Let me stress this is all based on taste. There are people who will like this. I'm afraid I don't. But your first poem on the board was really, really good. So I'll be interested to see how you go from here.
Dave
I read this first at the sphere, and whilst some of it is likeable, on the whole it doesn't do much. You see, there's simply the fact that this sort of poetry will ineviatably polarise your audience.
I'm afraid I'm in Cam's camp.
You're not really saying much beyond the fact that you can jibber out hundreds of similes that don't seem to build up to one piece of work. It often starts with a nice thought, but then procedes into what I am fond of calling 'image riffing'. You just riff with what you have, and push the logic, links and imagery of the piece into a world of distant correlations and relations. And it's all about audience. Some people may think that sort of juggling beautiful, powerful and iconoclastic. I just think it meaningless. Because there's no anchor on reality (and thus nothing to compare to) language is trivialised, not empowered. But I feel this about a lot of poets.
Here's some direct criticism, but be warned, this is entirely based on what I LIKE. I'm not being prescriptive, nor am I bludgeoning your style. I just want to show you what I as a reader thinks of this.
Frida, you’re my watermelon
after a midnight siesta
with the juice that must be burnt away
like a sunset
with black seeds riveted
like a cave full of bats,
then shot out of my mouth
with a Gatling gun -- sorry but this is really, really bad. It desperately wants to be poetic. The amount of loose, dangling tropes and conceits in this just hurts the head. The problem with it is that you have to really work all of this into one coherent sentence and, in doing so, make a lot of the writing awkward and 'and this and this and this'. It reads like the gushings of a child that has just been given a pen. There may be something in thinking 'all poets are children; poetry is innocence' etc etc, but I just think that pseudo-mystic rubbish.
more ambient than a crescent moon - ambient is a telly word. I get your drift here, but there are so many other (better) possibilities to use. 'ambient' is too vague for my tastes.
more ambient than a crescent moon
more fragrant than camellias growing in smokestacks
more defiant than a beaten horse against the whip
rearing into the ruckus hush
into the sweet pulp of the forbidden self
as sweetly forgetful
as opium and movie house chocolates
you and your lover devoured
while watching news reels of Hitler
and a bad wire act over Manhattan. - on the whole, I like this much more than the first half. That's because all of the images presented are different. It is a list, not a daft elaboration of one sort of image.
One thing about the first stanza. Is there a danger, because of all of the imagery, that you are not saying anything at all? I'm much more intrigued by Diego than I am about what Frida means to you. It seems the second stanza reaches some poetic territory wholly open to the reader.
and like a stray hound lost and cornered
you could only bark at the emptiness of a canvas - hounds bark, but I wouldn't say they bark at the canvus. You could wrench away the second half of this and have it much more effective.
(sorry to bring up stuff from another forum, but) you said talking about Deigo was entirely necessary. I completely agree. But I think you need more about him. It ends on
but for a blind man you were forever
her eye’s delight.
which is a bit of a cop out. As if you just thought he was an unecessary but obligatory inclusion for the poem. 'He had so many problems, BUT it was OK'. I'd like to see more of an examination into his lack of artistry, his difficulties, his relationship. I think that's where the poem turns from vague impressions to genuinely interesting poetry. It's just a shame it dithers away with the flotsam.
Again with S3, I'd like to hear some more detail about her paintings. The psychological process, the artistry, etc etc. At the moment you've got a string of nouns that make me indifferent to her art -- not really a desirable effect.
Because of that, S4 felt undeserved. And that's a shame because for the most part it's a cracking ending. Really. Apart from the cliche construction of 'laid to sleep' it's powerful. I just think you need to build up the artist and her surroundings (Diego) first, not your vague and garralous impressions of her art.
Let me stress this is all based on taste. There are people who will like this. I'm afraid I don't. But your first poem on the board was really, really good. So I'll be interested to see how you go from here.
Dave
Far too wordy for me too. It seems to me that if something takes that much description then something's missing. I'm reminded of Fra Lippo Lippi -
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!
The following lost me in a tangle of wordsalad -
Frida when you painted
bedridden in the militia of blanket
in a cosmopolis of wild boars
every grievous stricken worm
kept writhing in your earth
your hand taming the spotted brush
growling like a jaguar,
the meager sky balanced on your
rich top soil
with blue marmalade of mold dancing
on a nailed bread towered by twilight
you kept between your thumbnails, the primal color
of brand new dungarees
before the fading and the patching and the stooping
and when your brush turned the last corner
a rickety cart of jalapeno peppers
moaned like ship horns.
It was like listening to a wine buff describing a wine, comparing it with exotic fruits, mountain herbs, eastern spices etc; telling how well it goes with beluga caviar and Himalayan silver yak cheese, instead of just saying that it's not over-expensive, bloody good and gets you pissed.
Still, as Dave said, this is just my opinion - I prefer less rather than more. Blood and Water was a far better poem.
cheers
Barrie
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!
The following lost me in a tangle of wordsalad -
Frida when you painted
bedridden in the militia of blanket
in a cosmopolis of wild boars
every grievous stricken worm
kept writhing in your earth
your hand taming the spotted brush
growling like a jaguar,
the meager sky balanced on your
rich top soil
with blue marmalade of mold dancing
on a nailed bread towered by twilight
you kept between your thumbnails, the primal color
of brand new dungarees
before the fading and the patching and the stooping
and when your brush turned the last corner
a rickety cart of jalapeno peppers
moaned like ship horns.
It was like listening to a wine buff describing a wine, comparing it with exotic fruits, mountain herbs, eastern spices etc; telling how well it goes with beluga caviar and Himalayan silver yak cheese, instead of just saying that it's not over-expensive, bloody good and gets you pissed.
Still, as Dave said, this is just my opinion - I prefer less rather than more. Blood and Water was a far better poem.
cheers
Barrie
After letting go of branches and walking through the ape gait, we managed to grasp what hands were really for......
red
You have had a bit of a beating on this one, maybe you set too high an expectation last time.
I have to say I tend to agree with others comments but on the positive side I think you achieved a couple of things in this piece. If write is substituted for paint then you lived up to the opening quotation
“I paint my own reality. ...I paint whatever passes through my head
without any other consideration.”
Secondly, the over use of description and images evoked the feeling of a wildly colourful and full painting. I am acquainted with but not so familiar with Frida Kahlo's work but perhaps you meant the writing to be a mirror of the style of painting.
Just some thoughts
Elphin
You have had a bit of a beating on this one, maybe you set too high an expectation last time.
I have to say I tend to agree with others comments but on the positive side I think you achieved a couple of things in this piece. If write is substituted for paint then you lived up to the opening quotation
“I paint my own reality. ...I paint whatever passes through my head
without any other consideration.”
Secondly, the over use of description and images evoked the feeling of a wildly colourful and full painting. I am acquainted with but not so familiar with Frida Kahlo's work but perhaps you meant the writing to be a mirror of the style of painting.
Just some thoughts
Elphin
-
emuse
- Preponderant Poster
- Posts: 980
- Joined: Wed Jan 31, 2007 10:28 pm
- Location: Los Angeles, California
- Contact:
red this is an amazing piece. I think it can be honed to a very fine work. The aesthetic of Frida and Diego, the images of highly charged surrealism all contribute to something that demands to be read.
I am thinking this could be two poems or divided into two segments. I want to come back to this when I have more time, hopefully later tonight, to offer you in line for your considerations.
I have a great affinity for what you are attempting to create. Will return.
e
I am thinking this could be two poems or divided into two segments. I want to come back to this when I have more time, hopefully later tonight, to offer you in line for your considerations.
I have a great affinity for what you are attempting to create. Will return.
e
Thank you one and all:
It seems this one has critical hair in a dread-lock. And Elphin, I’ve got a hide that’ll put a rhino to shame. Is that good or bad? All kidding aside, I respect and honor those who have taken time and effort to give me their honest criticism. After all poetry is not only a school of thought
but for me a higher education. I have come here to revise this poem and you have given me some thoughts to how to go about it.
It seems this one has critical hair in a dread-lock. And Elphin, I’ve got a hide that’ll put a rhino to shame. Is that good or bad? All kidding aside, I respect and honor those who have taken time and effort to give me their honest criticism. After all poetry is not only a school of thought
but for me a higher education. I have come here to revise this poem and you have given me some thoughts to how to go about it.
Last edited by redpond on Thu Jan 31, 2008 4:38 am, edited 1 time in total.
Well emuse and tryp like it, and me too. Those other bastards were harsh. They're wonderful though. Good bastards.
I don't quite know what to say here. S1 and 2 were splendid to read. This reader lost interest after them however. Partly because the writing weakened, partly because the natural buildup led me nowhere.
I like what Dave said:
You're not really saying much beyond the fact that you can jibber out hundreds of similes that don't seem to build up to one piece of work. It often starts with a nice thought, but then procedes into what I am fond of calling 'image riffing'. You just riff with what you have, and push the logic, links and imagery of the piece into a world of distant correlations and relations. And it's all about audience. Some people may think that sort of juggling beautiful, powerful and iconoclastic. I just think it meaningless. Because there's no anchor on reality (and thus nothing to compare to) language is trivialised, not empowered.
I don't quite know what to say here. S1 and 2 were splendid to read. This reader lost interest after them however. Partly because the writing weakened, partly because the natural buildup led me nowhere.
I like what Dave said:
You're not really saying much beyond the fact that you can jibber out hundreds of similes that don't seem to build up to one piece of work. It often starts with a nice thought, but then procedes into what I am fond of calling 'image riffing'. You just riff with what you have, and push the logic, links and imagery of the piece into a world of distant correlations and relations. And it's all about audience. Some people may think that sort of juggling beautiful, powerful and iconoclastic. I just think it meaningless. Because there's no anchor on reality (and thus nothing to compare to) language is trivialised, not empowered.
-
twoleftfeet
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- Joined: Wed Dec 07, 2005 4:02 pm
- Location: Standing by a short pier, looking for a long run-up
Hi,
I get the feeling that some of the images may refer to paintings and some may refer to actual events in the
painter's life - I had a brief foray into Google images without seeing any watermelons so I'm probably
wrong.
Overall I think that you are letting your enthusiasm for the subject run away with you and you have built a row of
Babel skyscrapers which are , frankly, overwhelming to the point of pretensiousness, where a nice little row
of terraces would do. The parts I enjoyed are where your feet are firmly on the ground:
S2, especially
but for a blind man you were forever
her eye’s delight.
and the ending:
when colors you mixed
were laid to sleep in a glass jar
like a rare moth.
Having said that - Art is not my thing, so what the f* do I know except what I like and what I dont!
I would definitely remove the quote at the beginning though - NOBODY has ever made a brush so thin that you can get it between your ears yet still hold enough paint to colour the inside of your head!
Geoff
I get the feeling that some of the images may refer to paintings and some may refer to actual events in the
painter's life - I had a brief foray into Google images without seeing any watermelons so I'm probably
wrong.
Overall I think that you are letting your enthusiasm for the subject run away with you and you have built a row of
Babel skyscrapers which are , frankly, overwhelming to the point of pretensiousness, where a nice little row
of terraces would do. The parts I enjoyed are where your feet are firmly on the ground:
S2, especially
but for a blind man you were forever
her eye’s delight.
and the ending:
when colors you mixed
were laid to sleep in a glass jar
like a rare moth.
Having said that - Art is not my thing, so what the f* do I know except what I like and what I dont!
I would definitely remove the quote at the beginning though - NOBODY has ever made a brush so thin that you can get it between your ears yet still hold enough paint to colour the inside of your head!
Geoff
-
emuse
- Preponderant Poster
- Posts: 980
- Joined: Wed Jan 31, 2007 10:28 pm
- Location: Los Angeles, California
- Contact:
Hi Red,
I'm back with some ideas. I hope you keep this poem and work at it. I took great liberties here so please feel free to take or discard anything that works for you.
[I paint my own realty. ...I paint whatever passes through my head
without any other consideration.”] (I don’t think you need this epigraph. I believe anyone who knows Frida Kahlo or her work or bothers to read up on her life will know this is what she did. The poem shows this.)
[Frida,] You’re [my] watermelon after a midnight siesta
with [the] juice that must be burnt away
[like a sunset] and [with black] seeds [riveted]
like a cave full of bats,
Whew that’s a lot of suggestions. Please let me explain them all. You title the poem “Frida” so the reader knows the address is directed toward the subject. I think with the reduction of pronouns here and articles it makes for a smoother connection to the actual image which is wonderful “you're watermelon after a midnight siesta”. I like the idea of juice that must be burnt away, we begin to see that there is something wrong with this subject, almost acidic in it’s personality. I also like “like a sunset” the trouble I have is the two similes in a row “like a” which make the opening clunky. If you can modify this for a smoother flow you might be able to keep the sunset working. I took out “black” because the reader knows watermelon seeds are black. The trick is (for me) to pare down the modifiers so that the brillance of your image can shine through. Riveted doesn’t quite work for me as a verb and if you remove it we look at a cave full of bats....wow!
[then shot out of my mouth
with a Gatling gun] (I think this is a little OTT (over the top) and detracts from the really great picture you’ve begun witn.)
(Your portrait) [and the huge slice
of your self portraits more ambient than] a crescent moon
more fragrant than camellias [growing] in smokestacks
[more] defiant (like) [than] a [beaten] horse against the whip
rearing into the ruckus hush
If a horse is against the whip then we assume he is beaten. Rather than stringing the long breath of description from the top you can begin a new sentence so we are looking at “her portrait”.
[into the sweet pulp of the forbidden self]
(this feels like editorializing when you already have a so many thoughts for the reader to consumer. I would consider omitting it.)
as sweetly forgetful as opium and movie house chocolates
you and your lover devoured [while] watching news reels
of Hitler and a bad wire act over Manhattan.
Frida when you painted bedridden [in the militia of blanket
in a cosmopolis of wild boars] (This is very interesting but a little too abstract. I would choose the image which brings forth her suffering in a vivid way as follows:
every grievous stricken worm
kept writhing in your earth
[your hand] (tamed) [taming] the (sky balanced on your brush)
[spotted brush
growling like a jaguar, the meager sky balanced on your
rich top soil with blue marmalade of mold dancing
on a nailed bread towered by twilight
you kept between your thumbnails, the primal color
of brand new dungarees
before the fading and the patching and the stooping
and when your brush turned the last corner
a rickety cart of jalapeno peppers
moaned like ship horns. (I’m just going to rework this here rather than mark everything. You can keep or toss as you like.)
every grievous stricken worm
kept writhing in your earth
the sky you kept between your thumbnails,
the color of new dungarees, all before
the fading when your brush turned the last corner.
There are train stations weeping
there are ribbons without pins
and a whippoorwill sang of [brave] colors
that bear [tangled souls like] roots of mangrove
when colors you mixed
were laid to sleep in a glass jar
like a rare moth. (beautiful!)
Well this is a lot of monkeying with your words but I wanted to show you what I saw here. Some very striking and beautiful images that if pared down will allow the emotional aspect of this to reach the reader. Here is the poem with my edits.
You’re watermelon after a midnight siesta
with juice that must be burnt away
like a sunset; seeds like a cave full of bats.
Your portrait, a crescent moon more fragrant
than camellias in smokestacks, defiant like a horse
against the whip, rearing into the ruckus hush
as forgetful as opium and movie house chocolates
you and your lover devoured watching news reels
of Hitler and a bad wire act over Manhattan.
Frida, when you painted bedridden
every stricken worm writhed in your earth
and the sky you balanced on your brush,
the color of new dungarees, before the fading
when your brush turned the last corner.
There are train stations weeping
there are ribbons without pins
and a whippoorwill sang of blues that bear roots
of mangrove, when colors you mixed
were laid to sleep in a glass jar like a rare moth.
F.N.
I understand that you want to include Diego but I really think that it obfuscates the direction of this poem. You might try the idea again, paring down the images to join both but these are two very large beings and to only allude to Diego from the narrator address overshadows and diminishes him. If you want to write this from her point of view then I think you could include Diego. So I’m taking him out and putting him at the end with suggestions for him in another poem
Diego, you poor moon chaser
[however big you wanted to paint
ants crawled into your eyes,
and like a stray hound lost and cornered]
you could only bark at the emptiness of a canvas
[but for a blind man you were forever
her eye’s delight.]
Again a paring down to get to the essence of Diego. I frankly think “eye’s delight” is corny and I would take it out.
e
I'm back with some ideas. I hope you keep this poem and work at it. I took great liberties here so please feel free to take or discard anything that works for you.
[I paint my own realty. ...I paint whatever passes through my head
without any other consideration.”] (I don’t think you need this epigraph. I believe anyone who knows Frida Kahlo or her work or bothers to read up on her life will know this is what she did. The poem shows this.)
[Frida,] You’re [my] watermelon after a midnight siesta
with [the] juice that must be burnt away
[like a sunset] and [with black] seeds [riveted]
like a cave full of bats,
Whew that’s a lot of suggestions. Please let me explain them all. You title the poem “Frida” so the reader knows the address is directed toward the subject. I think with the reduction of pronouns here and articles it makes for a smoother connection to the actual image which is wonderful “you're watermelon after a midnight siesta”. I like the idea of juice that must be burnt away, we begin to see that there is something wrong with this subject, almost acidic in it’s personality. I also like “like a sunset” the trouble I have is the two similes in a row “like a” which make the opening clunky. If you can modify this for a smoother flow you might be able to keep the sunset working. I took out “black” because the reader knows watermelon seeds are black. The trick is (for me) to pare down the modifiers so that the brillance of your image can shine through. Riveted doesn’t quite work for me as a verb and if you remove it we look at a cave full of bats....wow!
[then shot out of my mouth
with a Gatling gun] (I think this is a little OTT (over the top) and detracts from the really great picture you’ve begun witn.)
(Your portrait) [and the huge slice
of your self portraits more ambient than] a crescent moon
more fragrant than camellias [growing] in smokestacks
[more] defiant (like) [than] a [beaten] horse against the whip
rearing into the ruckus hush
If a horse is against the whip then we assume he is beaten. Rather than stringing the long breath of description from the top you can begin a new sentence so we are looking at “her portrait”.
[into the sweet pulp of the forbidden self]
(this feels like editorializing when you already have a so many thoughts for the reader to consumer. I would consider omitting it.)
as sweetly forgetful as opium and movie house chocolates
you and your lover devoured [while] watching news reels
of Hitler and a bad wire act over Manhattan.
Frida when you painted bedridden [in the militia of blanket
in a cosmopolis of wild boars] (This is very interesting but a little too abstract. I would choose the image which brings forth her suffering in a vivid way as follows:
every grievous stricken worm
kept writhing in your earth
[your hand] (tamed) [taming] the (sky balanced on your brush)
[spotted brush
growling like a jaguar, the meager sky balanced on your
rich top soil with blue marmalade of mold dancing
on a nailed bread towered by twilight
you kept between your thumbnails, the primal color
of brand new dungarees
before the fading and the patching and the stooping
and when your brush turned the last corner
a rickety cart of jalapeno peppers
moaned like ship horns. (I’m just going to rework this here rather than mark everything. You can keep or toss as you like.)
every grievous stricken worm
kept writhing in your earth
the sky you kept between your thumbnails,
the color of new dungarees, all before
the fading when your brush turned the last corner.
There are train stations weeping
there are ribbons without pins
and a whippoorwill sang of [brave] colors
that bear [tangled souls like] roots of mangrove
when colors you mixed
were laid to sleep in a glass jar
like a rare moth. (beautiful!)
Well this is a lot of monkeying with your words but I wanted to show you what I saw here. Some very striking and beautiful images that if pared down will allow the emotional aspect of this to reach the reader. Here is the poem with my edits.
You’re watermelon after a midnight siesta
with juice that must be burnt away
like a sunset; seeds like a cave full of bats.
Your portrait, a crescent moon more fragrant
than camellias in smokestacks, defiant like a horse
against the whip, rearing into the ruckus hush
as forgetful as opium and movie house chocolates
you and your lover devoured watching news reels
of Hitler and a bad wire act over Manhattan.
Frida, when you painted bedridden
every stricken worm writhed in your earth
and the sky you balanced on your brush,
the color of new dungarees, before the fading
when your brush turned the last corner.
There are train stations weeping
there are ribbons without pins
and a whippoorwill sang of blues that bear roots
of mangrove, when colors you mixed
were laid to sleep in a glass jar like a rare moth.
F.N.
I understand that you want to include Diego but I really think that it obfuscates the direction of this poem. You might try the idea again, paring down the images to join both but these are two very large beings and to only allude to Diego from the narrator address overshadows and diminishes him. If you want to write this from her point of view then I think you could include Diego. So I’m taking him out and putting him at the end with suggestions for him in another poem
Diego, you poor moon chaser
[however big you wanted to paint
ants crawled into your eyes,
and like a stray hound lost and cornered]
you could only bark at the emptiness of a canvas
[but for a blind man you were forever
her eye’s delight.]
Again a paring down to get to the essence of Diego. I frankly think “eye’s delight” is corny and I would take it out.
e
I paint my own realty - I love it. I'm sure that can't be what she said. Damn typos! Either that or she's admirably parsimonious.
I must admit I know almost nothing about Frida Kahlo, except that Salma Hayek made a film about her not that long ago. So - slightly modish, perhaps?
This sort of stuff has a more or less glorious history, from Ida, sweet as apple cider to You're the top!
You're the Colosseum. You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum. It's a bit like a great lump of Lego - you just keep sticking more bits on, and they come prefabricated.
Having said that, some of the phrasing is delicious (and delovely). But more is not always more. A little of this would go a long way, but it's a long way that it would go. Apply judiciously.
I'm still definitely a fan, rp - my own inclination would be that you should be just a bit more, I dunno, trammeled next time, but it's entirely up to you. Keep posting - it's always a fun read. (That sounds patronising. Not intended. Like someone else said, your last one was a beauty. This is just a bit different.)
Cheers
David
I must admit I know almost nothing about Frida Kahlo, except that Salma Hayek made a film about her not that long ago. So - slightly modish, perhaps?
This sort of stuff has a more or less glorious history, from Ida, sweet as apple cider to You're the top!
You're the Colosseum. You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum. It's a bit like a great lump of Lego - you just keep sticking more bits on, and they come prefabricated.
Having said that, some of the phrasing is delicious (and delovely). But more is not always more. A little of this would go a long way, but it's a long way that it would go. Apply judiciously.
I'm still definitely a fan, rp - my own inclination would be that you should be just a bit more, I dunno, trammeled next time, but it's entirely up to you. Keep posting - it's always a fun read. (That sounds patronising. Not intended. Like someone else said, your last one was a beauty. This is just a bit different.)
Cheers
David