Fifth Birthday Present ( revised)

[Vincent Turner]

Revised

Long before friendship's disappointment
I had you. My little own bouncing moon.
Wrapped in brown paper, Father had
likened you to an oversized onion.

Unapproachable at first, you mocked the
awkwardness of my feet, side-stepping
my advances, bobbling beyond my swing.
Then father taught me how to make you
listen, how to talk to you with both tongues.

We learnt how to defy logic by curling
your curves around garden gnomes. Even
gravity, for a few fleeting seconds,
as you spun from feet to knee, relaxed.

On those disciplined nights
when I imagined the stars as a thousand
cameras flashing I'd wash you down
Before bed. wiped red-brick dust
and grass stain from your stitch frayed face,
poked back the spill of your own black tongue.

Even when we argued, and in my anger I exiled
you to a distant lawn some doors down,
Come morning I’d find you ready and waiting
Under the old oak tree. No foe could finish you-

to bobble and bounce before the jaws
of a persistent dog, Weave and dribble
between the hiss of spinning wheels
yet always remain a perfect full moon.

And now many years on, with tighter knees
and less speed, I repeat this mysterious love
with a slicker, lighter you, and a younger,
hungrier I.


Original


Long before friendship's disappointment
I had you. My little own bouncing moon.
They had wrapped you in brown paper.
Father likened you to an oversized onion.
Unapproachable at first, you mocked the
awkwardness of my feet, side-stepping
my advances, bobbling beyond my swing.
Then father taught me how to make you
listen, how to talk to you with both tongues.
We learnt how to defy logic by curling
your curves around garden gnomes. Even
gravity, forsake it's weight on those
disciplined nights when I imagined the
stars as a thousand cameras flashing.
Before bed I washed you down,
wiped red-brick dust and grass stain
from your stitch frayed face, poked
back the spill of your own black tongue.
Even when we argued, when you prevented
a new personal record, and in my anger I exiled
you to a distant lawn some doors down,
Come morning I’d find you ready and waiting
Under the old oak tree.
Not car, or dog could
Finish you. I believed you were magic.
To bobble and bounce before the jaws
of a persistent dog, Weave and dribble
between the hiss of spinning wheels.
You were the brush behind my art,
receiver of my rage.
And now many years on, with tighter knees
and less speed, I repeat this mysterious love
with a slicker, lighter you, and a younger,
hungrier I.

[BuckMulligan]

Hi, I really like this - it's a touching evocation of [spoilers?] getting your first football and learning to play. There's heaps of nostalgia but it never feels suffocating, though perhaps that's because it brought back my memories of playing football as a kid.

I love some of the phrases - "exiled / you to a distant lawn some doors down" and the thought of you caring for it before bed almost as a baby. The personification of it throughout, actually, is very good - I don't know if it's deliberate, but the use of "tongue" both to describe what I assume are the tongues of your shoes (fantastic pun, by the way) and the stitching on the ball reinforces the personal link you have with the ball, which I suppose in turn emphasises the bitterness of the discovery that human friendship disappoints which you allude to in the first line. Apologies if this is a little practical-criticism, but it's just things that I really liked about the poem.

What could be improved in the poem? I don't think all of the images are amazingly well-chosen - "when you prevented a new personal record" is a bit clunky. Similarly the sentence beginning "even gravity" is too obscure, which is compounded by the slightly confusing "forsake it's weight" - should that be "forsook its weight"? It feels a bit like a memory you couldn't leave out but means more to you than you've been able to get across. The double use of "dog" is avoidable. Perhaps I'm just being grumpy now, but "I believed you were magic" is a touch too reverent for the tone of the poem as a whole, and "the brush behind my art" strikes me as a step too far.

But overall the poem's great. The early part is quite strongly and subtly permeated by a nostalgia for the father as well - wise and supportive but irreverent. He (presumably) buys you the football, he gently mocks its appearance, but he teaches you how to use it and even speak to it. Then, at the end, there's a kind of continuance, so I guess the poem's just as much about fatherhood as it is about childhood. The beloved football is sadly easily replaced (by a better model nonetheless), and you come to the realisation that, just as sadly, the grown adult is just as easily replaced by a better model.

[Vincent Turner]

Hi Buck

Thanks for the really insightful feedback. Your comments were spot on.

You are right about the double use of dog, brush behind my art, forsake its weight etc...

I also got rid of the magic lines, and the prevented a personal record.

I am glad you got something from this poem, and your interpretation of it, was how I had hoped one would see it.

Thanks again, hope the revision works...

Best Regards

Vincent

[R Stinson]

Vincent,
A fine poem about childhood. Some comments for you to take or leave as you see fit


Long before friendship's disappointment
I had you. My little own bouncing moon.
Wrapped in brown paper, Father had
likened you to an oversized onion.

***I have gone back and forth on this but do not think you need this first stanza. I think you could keep it if the poem went in a slightly different, deeper direction [more about that later]***

Unapproachable at first, you mocked the
awkwardness of my feet, side-stepping
my advances, bobbling beyond my swing.
Then father taught me how to make you
listen, how to talk to you with both tongues.

***I like how it is unapproachable and mocking but, it seems, in a soft way; not off putting. Maybe side-stepped and bobbled instead. “how to talk to you with both tongues is fantastic***

We learnt how to defy logic by curling [maybe...together we learned to defy logic...]
your curves around garden gnomes. [Even
gravity, for a few fleeting seconds,].........not sure about this line. it seems to kind of hang there
as you spun from feet to knee, relaxed.

On those disciplined nights........................disciplined does not seem the best descriptor here
when I imagined the stars as a thousand
cameras flashing I'd wash you down....since there are billions of stars maybe simply imagined the stars as cameras flashing?

Before bed. wiped red-brick dust
and grass stain from your stitch frayed face,
poked back the spill of your own black tongue.

***Nice image to end the stanza on***

Even when we argued, and in my anger I exiled...love exiled
you to a distant lawn some doors down,
Come morning I’d find you ready and waiting
Under the old oak tree. No foe could finish you-

to bobble and bounce before the jaws
of a persistent dog, Weave and dribble
between the hiss of spinning wheels
yet always remain a perfect full moon.

***I kind of like this as the end stanza. I think it leaves it in the realm of youth and nostalgia***

And now many years on, with tighter knees
and less speed, I repeat this mysterious love
with a slicker, lighter you, and a younger,
hungrier I.

To circle back to my comment on the first stanza: the only other suggestion I have is to delve a little deeper and use the poem as a metaphor for the child’s relationship with his father. At its essence it is a relationship poem, as it stands the father is mentioned almost as an aside [one reason I suggested cutting the first stanza] But what if you worked the father in there a bit more? Used the relationship with the football might free up a lot of different avenues to explain the relationship with the father as a child from the perspective of an adult. Just a thought
I thank you for the opportunity to read and comment.


RS

[BuckMulligan]

Hi Vincent,

Love the revision, it feels much more polished. The part beginning "even gravity..." and ending "..before bed" is the biggest improvement as it genuinely adds to the poem in its previous form. I find it interesting that R Stinson criticises the line "even gravity, for a few fleeting seconds" by saying "it seems to kind of hang there"; it does seem to hang there, but this is neatly appropriate for a line about how gravity is temporarily relaxed. The metre and motion of the poem "hangs there" just as the ball does. Lovely touch (whether or not it was deliberate).

I'm afraid I have to further disagree with you, R Stinson, regarding your final suggestions. I think the poem already works beautifully as a quiet memory of the father, as you yourself point out, but I don't think it needs further emphasising or exploring. The poem as it is works as an image, and I'd be loath to do anything that might upset the quiet balance between the vivid memories of the football and the almost secondary recollections - more important, perhaps, on reflection - of the father.

[David]

I've only read the revision, Vincent. I must be a bit slow on the uptake, because I couldn't see where you were going with this at first, but I got there in the end. It's very good. You withhold the naming of the thing very skilfully, without being too obscure.

I can only add my voice to the praise of "how to talk to you with both tongues".

Your capitalisation and punctuation seem to go a bit awry at "Before bed. wiped red-brick dust".

Very nicely done.

Cheers

David

[Arian]

Very good indeed. One of the most enjoyable pieces I've seen here for a little while. The tongues line is very clever, and I really liked the stars/cameras image, but - for me -

you mocked the
awkwardness of my feet, side-stepping
my advances,

is the highlight of the piece - a witty and effective use of the pathetic fallacy.

Some punctuation/capitalisation errors, but that's to trifle.

Definitely a thumbs up from this reader.

Cheers
peter

[twoleftfeet]

It's a touching piece, Vincent.

I can empathise with (almost) every part, especially the stiff knees.

The near-indestructability of the ball, however, I find hard to believe

you mocked the
awkwardness of my feet, side-stepping
my advances,

is the highlight of the piece - a witty and effective use of the pathetic fallacy.

I can't disagree with that.

Much enjoyed
Geoff