Poetry Forum

The pitter patter raindrops and breakheart melodies send shivers down my spine. Sat in the dark watching gunmetal skies through a dirty window, this house is all empty and i feel the same. Robbed entirely of its purpose, the clock flashes on-off, on-off, telling the wrong time to no-one at all, tick tock, talk to myself; here i sit surrounded by my beloved black plastic, no fags, no candles, no idea, and the records just spin round and round and round posing more questions than they answer (hold me closer tiny dancer). It reminds me of the sodden evenings walking rainswept under the streetlights crawling halfbroken to your door and it all seems to call me home, a wicked tease, a siren call to a place that no longer exists; each heartstring pulled taut and snapped so callous, i wrap up in layers, pray for forgiveness and wait for a sign which we just know will never come and the record just keeps on and on spinning around and around, around and around, dizzying heart attacks screaming invisibly and silently trapped tight within the madding crowd, fall asleep, wake up, repeat repeat repeat.

Not bad imagery, however it doesnt seem to flow. It seems to make my head think several things at once, like when several people are talking very loudly in the same room. The mood is quite down and feels abit dull.
How about putting some more narrative into this?

Emily Dickinson once wrote that: "there is an inner consciousness from which we cannot rescue ourselves."(Emily Dickinson Personae and Performance, Elizabeth Phillips, Penn State UP, London, 1988, p.148) It has always seemed to me that writing is a matter of externalizing that inner consciousness. You seem to me to have a lot going on in your inner world; you have a lot of words in there; it's rich and varied; it's dynamic and colourful. Keep working at the externalizing process. From my perspective you have a solid base from which to refine and refine and refine.-Ron Price, Tasmania.

Sat in the dark watching gunmetal skies through a dirty window, this house is all empty and I feel the same.

Robbed entirely of its purpose, the clock flashes on-off, on-off, telling the wrong time no-one at all, tick tock, talk to myself; here I sit surrounded by beloved black plastic, ….

…;each heartstring pulled taut and snapped so callous, I wrap up in layers, pray for forgiveness and wait for a sign which we just…

Other than the capitalizations of “I” this tale was a poignant one. I also believe that the chaotic illustration of imagery gives a more in depth emotional relation to the story. I am not certain if that is understood myself but I shall stand by original comment.

Rena, why are you going round exhuming these (mostly) dead and buried bits of prose? Give us a bit of yourself, why don't you? I'd love to read it.

Cheers

David

A dance of spinning images.

After reading your piece, I felt like a whirling dervish.

The last half of your piece flows well.