Eva's Birds [revision 7] (minor nudges)

[JJWilliamson]

I watch him labour up the path, as though his spine
and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his walking stick bent like an old pit prop.

I hear his familiar voice, coarse from coal dust,
calling to the blackbirds “Come my little canaries"
as he heaves an injured leg over broken stones

to the bird table. Somehow, he still tends the garden,
his little patch, the borders hoed and tilled
to tempt the song thrush and foraging robin.

He often sits by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the clouds dissolve, but always smiles
when I say hello, and sometimes he mentions The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rests on
was her seat, a quiet place to count sparrows and bees,
a private place to meditate and plant rows of memories.



Revision 6

I watched him labour up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his walking stick bent like an old pit prop.

I heard that familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with coal dust, calling to the blackbirds
“Come my little canaries” as he heaved an injured leg

over broken stones to the bird table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, his little patch,
borders hoed and tilled to tempt the foraging robin.

He always sat by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the clouds dissolve; but always smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he mentioned The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count sparrows and bees,
a private place to meditate and plant rows of memories.


Revision 5

I watched him labour up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his walking stick bent like an old pit prop.

I heard his familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with coal dust, calling to the blackbirds, repeatedly,
“Come my little canaries” as he dragged his injured leg

over broken stones to the bird table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, his little patch,
borders tilled and hoed to tempt the foraging robin.

He always sat by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the clouds dissolve; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he mentioned The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count sparrows and bees,
a private place to meditate and plant rows of memories.


Revision 4

I watched him labour up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his walking stick bent like an old pit prop.

I heard his familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with coal dust, calling to the blackbirds, repeatedly,
“Come my little canaries” as he dragged his injured leg

over broken stones to the bird table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, his little patch,
borders tilled and hoed to tempt the foraging robin.

He always sat by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the clouds dissolve; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he mentioned The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
now a private place to meditate and plant a row of memories.


Revision 3

I watched him labour up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his walking stick bent like an old pit prop.

I heard his familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with coal dust, calling to the blackbirds, repeatedly,
“Come my little canaries” as he dragged his injured leg

over broken stones to the bird table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, his little patch,
borders tilled and hoed to tempt the foraging robin.

He always sat by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the clouds dissolve; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he mentioned The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to plant memories and hide his tired face.


Revision 2

I watched him labour up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick bent like a miner’s prop.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he dragged his scarred leg

over broken stones to the bird table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, his little patch,
borders tilled and hoed to tempt the foraging robin.

He always sat by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the pansies grow; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he mentioned The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.


Revision 1

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.


Original

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
pelvis had been fractured into a dozen pieces,
his thin hand trusting an old walking stick.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, searching for blackbirds, calling them
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass given a short back & sides, borders hoed.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met his wife. The narrow bench he rested on
was Eva’s seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Afternoon JJ.

The Old Miner
- not keen on this, as it promises then doesn't deliver.
That he was a miner doesn't feature in the poem.

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his
pelvis had been fractured into a dozen pieces,
his thin hand trusting an old walking stick.
- think you could simply cut this. Doesn't add much
in terms of narrative or character. And L4 offers a
more interesting opening, I think.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, searching for blackbirds, calling them
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg
- like this, especially 'my little...', but 'with age'
is rather flat. I'll get that he's old over the course
of the piece, no need to spell it out.
(Why is he searching for blackbirds?)
What is it with you and 'weak legs' ?
Just a suggestion:
I heard a familiar voice searching for blackbirds,
coarse and unsteady with age, calling them

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass given a short back & sides, borders hoed.
- 'broken stones' isn't offering much, visually.
Like 'still managed...' ('old', and without being told!),
but 'hoed', after 'trimmed' and 'short back & ...' doesn't
really work. Ampersand?

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War
- I assume the 'children' are his? What does 'The War' have
to do with him being a miner? (Or the rest of the piece,
seems a bit lazy somehow, JJ.)

and how he met his wife. The narrow bench he rested on
was Eva’s seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.
- can you do something with the last line? Ending on 'memories'
would be more impactful, I think (though not sure about
'private place', N's there after all . And that's 'place' twice in
two lines). 'Eva's seat' might be a better title. ''Eva', German
wife?

Enjoyed the read, JJ, but it just seems to lack a bit of
(emotional) depth.

Regards, Not.

.

[CalebPerry]

A character sketch like this can be very effective if it's done right. This poem has good moments, but also has some awkward moments and a lot of extraneous detail that doesn't arouse any emotion.

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his
pelvis had been fractured into a dozen pieces, [I'd prefer "in a dozen places".]
his thin hand trusting an old walking stick. [This stanza feels a little run-on to me, but could be easily fixed.]

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady [I guess his voice is familiar because you know him? Is that relevant?]
with age, searching for blackbirds, calling them
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg [I too like "My little canaries" -- sounds original, idiosyncratic.]

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass given a short back & sides, borders hoed. [Gets a little tedious in this stanza.]

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled [Children accruing debt?]
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met his wife. The narrow bench he rested on
was Eva’s seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face. [This is where I felt a bit of an emotional twinge.]

In my view, the poem needs more intensity, more pertinent background info, more poignancy. Your sketch of this guy arouses a little pity, but that's not enough to make it interesting. Sorry to be blunt.

[Macavity]

Interesting character sketch JJ. An industrial injury? I guess something of a first draft, but the understated isolation of the miner - his resilience and pride - earn the hide his tired face . The nuanced, layered approach works for me, though some of the phrasing is familiar.

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his .............regular, persistent...not keen on the pronoun lb
pelvis had been fractured into a dozen pieces,..............age, a recent fall? or consequence of his work?
his thin hand trusting an old walking stick.......no other aid available, vulnerability

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady ............going for the alliterative sonics, but rudeness? class divide?
with age, searching for blackbirds, calling them
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg.......nicely threads to mining dangers/reassurances

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow, .......threads to his broken state
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,.............pride, doesn't let things go to...
grass given a short back & sides, borders hoed............I think the poem needs a consistent use of conjunction

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled.......abandoned, putting on a face to the world, always polite
when I said, and sometimes he spoke of The War .........defining time for many

and how he met his wife. The narrow bench he rested on
was Eva’s seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,......like how occupancy evokes memory
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face....alliterative cluster...draw an option to paint?

hope that helps some

cheers

mac

[JJWilliamson]

Thank you very much, Not and Perry, for the thoughtful critiques and salient pointers. Much appreciated.

I can see I've left too much to the reader's imagination, always a fault of mine, and have once again assumed too much.
What is clear in my mind isn't necessarily going to be clear in the minds of others. Mea culpa, I assure you.

.
Afternoon JJ.

The Old Miner
- not keen on this, as it promises then doesn't deliver. ...Hmm, I'd hoped the canaries and mining, with its war connection to reserved occupations would be enough. That and his obvious injuries, where the said occupation was sometimes as dangerous as war itself. However, its all implied, and even then only just.
That he was a miner doesn't feature in the poem.

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his
pelvis had been fractured into a dozen pieces,
his thin hand trusting an old walking stick.
- think you could simply cut this. Doesn't add much
in terms of narrative or character. And L4 offers a
more interesting opening, I think. ...Maybe, but I'm not sure.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, searching for blackbirds, calling them
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg
- like this, especially 'my little...', but 'with age'
is rather flat. I'll get that he's old over the course
of the piece, no need to spell it out. ...Good point. I'll look to change that immediately, or sooner!
(Why is he searching for blackbirds?) ...Because he feeds them and their singing gives him so much pleasure. Also I didn't want to end up with a huge list of garden birds.
What is it with you and 'weak legs' ? ...And dodgy backs!
Just a suggestion:
I heard a familiar voice searching for blackbirds,
coarse and unsteady with age, calling them

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass given a short back & sides, borders hoed.
- 'broken stones' isn't offering much, visually. ...It's just me playing with "broken bones".
Like 'still managed...' ('old', and without being told!),
but 'hoed', after 'trimmed' and 'short back & ...' doesn't
really work. Ampersand? ...Judiciously applied, I thought.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War
- I assume the 'children' are his? What does 'The War' have
to do with him being a miner? ...It was a reserved occupation. If he'd gone to war he wouldn't have met Eva. As a miner he had his own war to fight all his working life.

(Or the rest of the piece,
seems a bit lazy somehow, JJ.)

and how he met his wife. The narrow bench he rested on
was Eva’s seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.
- can you do something with the last line? Ending on 'memories' ...The last line is where the emotion lies.
would be more impactful, I think (though not sure about
'private place', N's there after all . And that's 'place' twice in ...Yes, I know about the double 'place', but repetition is an acceptable rhetorical device, one that helps to emphasise a point.
two lines). 'Eva's seat' might be a better title. ''Eva', German, wife? ...I'm with you on the title suggestion. Consider it done.
Yes, Eva was his wife. She is no longer with us. Did that come through, I wonder.

Enjoyed the read, JJ, but it just seems to lack a bit of
(emotional) depth.

Regards, Not.

.

A character sketch like this can be very effective if it's done right. This poem has good moments, but also has some awkward moments and a lot of extraneous detail that doesn't arouse any emotion.

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his
pelvis had been fractured into a dozen pieces, [I'd prefer "in a dozen places".] ...Yes, I think so too, now that you've mentioned it.
his thin hand trusting an old walking stick. [This stanza feels a little run-on to me, but could be easily fixed.] ...It simply introduces an infirm character who just happens to be a retired miner. I'd hoped the awkward shuffle would generate some sort of curiosity.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady [I guess his voice is familiar because you know him? Is that relevant?]]...It's supposed to represent warmth, a pleasant and gentle voice.
with age, searching for blackbirds, calling them
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg [I too like "My little canaries" -- sounds original, idiosyncratic.] ...Canaries are songbirds, as are blackbirds. Miners used to take canaries into the mines as an early warning system for the presence of toxic gasses. They succumbed to the poisons before humans and consequently the miners evacuated the seams if the canaries fell sick.

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass given a short back & sides, borders hoed. [Gets a little tedious in this stanza.[/color]...Fair enough. Just showing that he was still struggling on despite his difficulties.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled [Children accruing debt?] ...Metaphor for too busy with their own lives and mortgages, car payments, credit, loans etc.
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met his wife. The narrow bench he rested on
was Eva’s seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face. [This is where I felt a bit of an emotional twinge.] ...Good to know, because that's where the payoff is, I hope.

In my view, the poem needs more intensity, more pertinent background info, more poignancy. Your sketch of this guy arouses a little pity, but that's not enough to make it interesting. Sorry to be blunt. ...No need to be sorry at all, Perry. All points of view are extremely valuable.

Thanks again to both.

Best

JJ

[JJWilliamson]

Ah, we cross-posted, mac

Thanks for the astute read and life saver. You've got most of the layers and the suggested narrative.

Interesting character sketch JJ. An industrial injury? I guess something of a first draft, but the understated isolation of the miner - his resilience and pride - earn the hide his tired face . The nuanced, layered approach works for me, though some of the phrasing is familiar. ...Yes indeed, an early draft, although not entirely rough. I honestly did wonder about some of the phrasing, recognising some of it as near cliché, so I'll revisit that problem during my first revision.

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his .............regular, persistent...not keen on the pronoun lb ...I'll name him.
pelvis had been fractured into a dozen pieces,..............age, a recent fall? or consequence of his work? ...Yip, both are implied, where danger seems to have been a feature of his life.
his thin hand trusting an old walking stick.......no other aid available, vulnerability. ...Yes, he trusts that only support, and will not ask for more help.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady ............going for the alliterative sonics, but rudeness? class divide? ...There's a lot going on, sonically speaking, especially in the close. It's more to do with deterioration than class.
with age, searching for blackbirds, calling them
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg.......nicely threads to mining dangers/reassurances ...GOOD! Delighted to read this.

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow, .......threads to his broken state...Yes again. It threads to broken bones, mental state and life.
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,.............pride, doesn't let things go to... Right on the money.
grass given a short back & sides, borders hoed............I think the poem needs a consistent use of conjunction ...Good point.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled.......abandoned, putting on a face to the world, always polite ...As if everything was just fine and dandy. ...He still follows the social niceties.
when I said, and sometimes he spoke of The War .........defining time for many ...My parents were of this generation and they never missed an opportunity to reference the war years. Same goes for my Aunts and Uncles. I always listened.

and how he met his wife. The narrow bench he rested on
was Eva’s seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,......like how occupancy evokes memory
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face....alliterative cluster...draw an option to paint? ...Yes, this strophe is loaded with poetical devices and I did wonder about the cluster you reference. I'll think on it.

hope that helps some ...Helped enormously, mac.

cheers

mac

Thanks again,

Best

JJ

[JJWilliamson]

Revision 1 up. Thanks everyone!

JJ

[Macavity]

Hi JJ

The original title was fine (I knew it was a 'Reserved Occupation'), though Miner would frame the poem and define the starting point. Why be oblique? My comment for L1 was referencing the weak line break. The revised S1 is weaker than the original in my view.

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,........more an age process then.
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop....detracts from the focus on vulnerability/isolation in the original

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on ..........like the edit there, can hear the voice
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.

cheers

mac

[CalebPerry]

This is much, much better. I feel something when I read this.

Since you mention the "miner's prop" in the third line, perhaps you should keep the title "The Old Miner" so "miner's prop" won't be a surprise.

I think this poem would have much more immediacy if you put it in the present tense. Here is an example:

I watch Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis were fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.

I hear his familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he drags his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow
he still manages the garden, keeps hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed. ...

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his [Why mention his name? Just say "him".]
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone, [good!]
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop. [syntax has improved] [Should the reader know what a "miner's prop" is?]

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating ["pidgeons" might be more poetic, being a more ordinary bird]
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow, [What is a "birdtable"?]
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed, [with = kept or keeps]
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children [children = grown children]
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War [good transition to next stanza]

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face. [good ending!]

Usually, poems don't improve this much from first to second draft. I can relate much better to the fellow in this draft.

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Hi JJ,

niggles, mostly.

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.
- still not convinced of the need for this, and now
you go from a name (L1) to a 'familiar voice' (L4)
(presumably it should be 'I heard his familiar...')
and 'path' to 'broken stones' (L7)

...

over broken stones to the bird-table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden [on his own]
- the cutting etc. still not doing much, maybe
an hour's work take him half the day ?

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
- given the previous verse, perhaps 'often' for always' ?
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
- not sure about 'but'.
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War
- was it because he wanted to speak or because N asked?


Regards, Not.


.

[Firebird]

Hi JJ,

I like the poem overall but do think the ending could do more and neither title adds a great deal to the poem - there are enough references in the poem to know he was a miner (miner’s prop, canaries ...). Some specific comments below.

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone, (strong image)
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating (is ‘with age’ filling? The ‘blackbirds’ are perfect)
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg (Great allusion to an mining accident. His canary dead from gas.)

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow, (I love that it’s ‘over broken stones’. Very clever)
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed. (Not sure about the mowed/hoed internal rhyme: it’s a bit loud for my ear. Why? What is it drawing my attention to?)

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled (‘too busy accruing debt to notice’ is very telly. I don’t like it)
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on (My Eva is a nice touch)
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face. (How does this place hide his face? N saw it there. Not sure the ending works)

Hope this helps.

Cheers,

Tristan

[David]

Is it just because I know you live among the lakes that I often think your work is steeped in Wordsworth, JJ? I don't think so - but it may be an element in it, I don't know.

Anyway - have we had this conversation before? - I'm getting definite echoes of The Old Cumberland Beggar and - towards the end - The Ruined Cottage here.

Somehow,
he still managed the garden

This seems a bit dully conversational. Perhaps you could just describe the garden, and give yourself a line and a half to do something else with.

children
too busy accruing debt to notice

And this seems a startling intrusion of the modern world into the poem. I think I like it, but it took me by surprise.

I like it, in general.

Cheers

David

[1lankest]

Lovely and moving.
Great revision.
I would only change this:

but still he smiled

To

but he still smiled.

That’s how it’s usually said and the poem has a conversational feel otherwise.

Luke

[JJWilliamson]

Ah, a mixed bag of critiques is always interesting, I find.

Thanks again, mac

Hi JJ

The original title was fine (I knew it was a 'Reserved Occupation'), though Miner would frame the poem and define the starting point. Why be oblique? My comment for L1 was referencing the weak line break. The revised S1 is weaker than the original in my view. ...Now that is interesting and something to chew over. Cheers.

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,........more an age process then. ...Well, industrial injury can lead to this condition so it's a reference to both possibilities.
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop....detracts from the focus on vulnerability/isolation in the original ...Still looking at this opening strophe and might revert to the original. Haven't decided yet, given the mixed bag of comments.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the bird table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on ..........like the edit there, can hear the voice
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.

cheers

mac

Thanks again, Perry, for dropping back in to comment.

This is much, much better. I feel something when I read this. ...Thank you for the thumbs up.

Since you mention the "miner's prop" in the third line, perhaps you should keep the title "The Old Miner" so "miner's prop" won't be a surprise.

I think this poem would have much more immediacy if you put it in the present tense. Here is an example:

I watch Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis were fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop. ....Interestingly, I've already tried present tense and hummed and harred over the possibilities. I'll have another look.

I hear his familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he drags his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow
he still manages the garden, keeps hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed. ...

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his [Why mention his name? Just say "him".] ...Yes, I'll change that back to "him".
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone, [good!]
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop. [syntax has improved] [Should the reader know what a "miner's prop" is?] ...It's not much of a puzzle, I hope.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating ["pidgeons" might be more poetic, being a more ordinary bird] ...Can't beat the British Blackbird's song. Here's a link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=997RTKzc39c
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow, [What is a "birdtable"?] ...Typo.
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed, [with = kept or keeps] ...I might change this section completely. Still thinking.
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children [children = grown children] ...Yes, that's it.
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War [good transition to next stanza]

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face. [good ending!]

Usually, poems don't improve this much from first to second draft. I can relate much better to the fellow in this draft. ...That's good to know.

.
Hi JJ,

niggles, mostly.

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.
- still not convinced of the need for this, and now
you go from a name (L1) to a 'familiar voice' (L4) ...I've changed the name to 'him'.
(presumably it should be 'I heard his familiar...')
and 'path' to 'broken stones' (L7)

...

over broken stones to the bird-table. Somehow,
he still managed the garden [on his own]
- the cutting etc. still not doing much, maybe
an hour's work take him half the day ? ...I'm seriously thinking about revising this strophe.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
- given the previous verse, perhaps 'often' for always' ?
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
- not sure about 'but'. ...It emphasises his politeness and willingness to carry on regardless. He still smiles after all his trials.
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War
- was it because he wanted to speak or because N asked? ...As they talk, I thought, the info' would often emerge. She has passed on and he is left with his thoughts and memories. The war changed so many lives, so many. We probably would never have been born if it hadn't been for the wars. My own grandfather was shot through the throat, where the bullet entered his brain and half blinded him during the first WW. His survival was miraculous, but survive he did. This incredible life event was a regular story in our family. It simply gets told. "During the war"! Thank you, Uncle Albert.


Regards, Not.


.

Best to all

JJ

PS

I've got to go to the footy, so I'll be back with replies later on.

J

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Evening JJ.

..As they talk, I thought, the info' would often emerge...
Maybe just change the 'he' to 'we' then'?
My own grandfather was shot
Was he the one in that 'prose' piece of yours a while back, The Birthing of War?
Still waiting for the rest of that story!

I'm seriously thinking about revising this strophe.

Good

S2 should surely start with 'I heard his/that familiar voice...' ?

Just a thought for S1
He came labouring up the path again, as though his
...
nhs walking stick as thick as a miner’s prop.

(Does S4 contradict 'hide' in S5?)

Regards, Not.

.

[capricorn]

I like this JJ - much improved revision

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.
a walking stick acting like a miner's prop, doesn't sound quite right, somehow. Perhaps describe how it's like a miner's prop

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed.

I feel there might be too much information here -I'd prefer it kept more simple

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.

For me it would be nicer to end on painting memories


I quite like your original title, but can understand why you changed it. Perhaps it's because my father and grandfather were miners

Eira

[JJWilliamson]

Ha! In no particular order. Sorry about the delay but I didn't get back home till late last night.

Thanks, David, for the thoughts. I'll post a second revision after these replies.

Is it just because I know you live among the lakes that I often think your work is steeped in Wordsworth, JJ? I don't think so - but it may be an element in it, I don't know. ...Yes, I do have a penchant for the romantics, Wordsworth in particular.

Anyway - have we had this conversation before? - I'm getting definite echoes of The Old Cumberland Beggar and - towards the end - The Ruined Cottage here. ...Pure coincidence. I can see where you're coming from , though, especially the Old Cumberland Beggar. I like the idea of the association.

Somehow,
he still managed the garden

This seems a bit dully conversational. Perhaps you could just describe the garden, and give yourself a line and a half to do something else with. ...I've changed it, but for better or worse, who can say!

children
too busy accruing debt to notice

And this seems a startling intrusion of the modern world into the poem. I think I like it, but it took me by surprise. ...Yes, I've changed that strophe because you're not the only one to mention the incongruity of the children.

I like it, in general. ...Thank you.

Cheers

David

Thanks, Tristan, for the helpful comments. Much appreciated.

Hi JJ,

I like the poem overall but do think the ending could do more and neither title adds a great deal to the poem - there are enough references in the poem to know he was a miner (miner’s prop, canaries ...). Some specific comments below. ...Yes, it's niggling away. I was reasonably happy with the new title but it's still bothering me.

I watched Joe shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone, (strong image)
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating (is ‘with age’ filling? The ‘blackbirds’ are perfect) ...I think 'with age' is ok as a pointer.
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg (Great allusion to an mining accident. His canary dead from gas.)

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow, (I love that it’s ‘over broken stones’. Very clever)
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed. (Not sure about the mowed/hoed internal rhyme: it’s a bit loud for my ear. Why? What is it drawing my attention to?)[/b]...It's gone and I've revised that strophe. It shows determination and spirit when he could have easily succumbed to the pressures. It's a trait of that generation.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled (‘too busy accruing debt to notice’ is very telly. I don’t like it) ...It's gone for the time being. You're not the only one to mention that line.
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on (My Eva is a nice touch)
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face. (How does this place hide his face? N saw it there. Not sure the ending works) ...He is alone apart from the odd meeting with his neighbours, so his garden acts as his sanctuary where he can hide his pain, both physical and emotional. He can be himself in his private place, where nobody can see him. It protects him from unwelcome eyes.

Hope this helps.

Cheers,

Tristan

Thanks again, Not, for the thoughtful replies.

.
Evening JJ.

..As they talk, I thought, the info' would often emerge...
Maybe just change the 'he' to 'we' then'? ...Not if he was doing the talking and the speaker merely listening, with the odd nod and comment.
My own grandfather was shot
Was he the one in that 'prose' piece of yours a while back, The Birthing of War? ...Ah, YES! He was indeed. I have an ending but not a middle.
Still waiting for the rest of that story!

I'm seriously thinking about revising this strophe.

Good

S2 should surely start with 'I heard his/that familiar voice...' ?

Just a thought for S1
He came labouring up the path again, as though his ...It's a possibility.
...
nhs walking stick as thick as a miner’s prop. ...I've made a few changes in revision 2.

(Does S4 contradict 'hide' in S5?) ...I don't think so. He always sits alone but occasionally meets his neighbour.

Regards, Not.




.

Thanks, Eira, for dropping in to comment.

I like this JJ - much improved revision ...Thank you.

I watched him shuffle up the path again, as though his
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick acting like a miner’s prop.
a walking stick acting like a miner's prop, doesn't sound quite right, somehow. Perhaps describe how it's like a miner's prop ...I've made a slight change. The prop acts as a support and bends under the pressure of rock. Similarly, the man relies on the stick, placing a lot of trust and weight on his one aid.

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
“My little canaries” as he dragged his weak leg

over broken stones to the birdtable. Somehow,
he still managed the garden, with hedges trimmed,
grass mowed and edged, borders hoed.

I feel there might be too much information here -I'd prefer it kept more simple ...Yes, you're not alone. I've changed this strophe but might have to return to tidy it up. It emphasised how he kept the garden going, even though Eva had passed on. His pride kept him at it.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
too busy accruing debt to notice; but still he smiled
when I said hello, and sometimes he spoke of The War

and how he met My Eva. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place to count bees and sparrows,
a private place to paint memories and hide his tired face.

For me it would be nicer to end on painting memories ...It's the hiding of his pain that counts, where the world can't see him. Only his neighbour is aware, hence the poem. That's the kind of thing I was hinting at. Might not be working.


I quite like your original title, but can understand why you changed it. Perhaps it's because my father and grandfather were miners ...Oh, that's interesting, Eira. I'm going back to the original but might change it again when I've had more time to think.


Eira

Thanks for the comments and nudge, Luke. Appreciated.

Lovely and moving.
Great revision.
I would only change this:

but still he smiled

To

but he still smiled.

That’s how it’s usually said and the poem has a conversational feel otherwise. ...Yes, I have a habit of dropping in the odd inversion. Good point.

Luke

Thanks again to all

JJ

[Antcliff]

Greetings JJ


I like the portrait,

but I did wonder about what might seem to be quite a bit of redundancy. I wonder if "one" is already implied by "fused"? Do you need to say that his garden was a "private place"? Or that it was "quiet"?...how loud would it be with the bees and sparrows? If the leg is dragged, don't we know it is "weak"? I am not sure you need to say "old" miner in the title. That seems implied by the poem...."with age"? Could it be replaced in the title? And couldn't the same be said of "miner"?


Happy Spring!
Seth

[JJWilliamson]

Greetings to you too, Seth. Great to see you.

Greetings JJ


I like the portrait, ...Thank you. Appreciated.

but I did wonder about what might seem to be quite a bit of redundancy. I wonder if "one" is already implied by "fused"? ...I suppose it depends on the nature of the fusion, where spinal fusion is common but not necessarily absolute. The rigidity of a completely fused whole would be seriously immobilising, yet an operation involving spinal fusion can often be very beneficial. I think it falls into the category of exaggeration.

Do you need to say that his garden was a "private place"? Or that it was "quiet"? ...It's essentially his secret garden that is both quiet and usually private. He sees his neighbours from time to time but that's all.

...how loud would it be with the bees and sparrows? ...I'm not following this question, Seth. I don't think there'd be much of a sound beyond an occasional flap and low hum. It's an observational reference, where they'd sit together to observe the birds and bees. It's a place to feel good.

If the leg is dragged, don't we know it is "weak"? ...Aha! Good point. I think 'weak' is weak, now that you mention it. Something like "twisted" might work. Let me think on it.

I am not sure you need to say "old" miner in the title. ...Agreed. The title still needs to be changed. I had "Reserved Occupation" as an option but shelved it whilst I thought about the possibilities.

"with age"? Could it be replaced in the title? And couldn't the same be said of "miner"? ...I'll look closely at both suggestions. Thanks again.


Happy Spring! ...Same to you. Actually I could do with one last heavy snowfall to get some photos for a couple of paintings. Otherwise, bring on the Spring!
Seth

Thanks again, Seth, for the thoughtful comments. Good to see you back.

Best

JJ

[capricorn]

Hi JJ, I like all your changes - just right … and the title is more original. Good job.

Eira

[JJWilliamson]

Thanks, Eira, for looking in on this poem again. Appreciated.

I'm still looking at the title and have rejected thousands of alternatives. Ok, three or four.

Actually, I'm drawn to "Eva's Birds" but I can't be sure if that's what I want. The background story is important and the old miner has his memories and experiences to keep him going, so Eva is/was utmost in his thoughts. However, his memories and experiences are also his pain, both physical and emotional. So, should he be an integral part of the title, is the allusion to Eva's Birds enough? Still thinkin'.

Anyway, I could go on like this for ever as I have a habit of chewing the cud for ages.

Best

JJ

PS Changed 'injured' to "scarred", to indicate an old wound..

J

Hi JJ, I like all your changes - just right … and the title is more original. Good job.

Eira

[NotQuiteSure]

.
The Hewer
Still not there with the title JJ


I watched him labour up the path again, as though his
- any way to not end the line with 'as though his', just
seems a bit weak for an opening.
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick bent like a miner’s prop.
- a bent walking stick?

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
- either 'his' or 'that, 'a' invites the question 'whose voice'
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
- any alternative to 'repeating' Maybe start his speech
with "Come, come" ?
“My little canaries” as he dragged his scarred leg
- 'as he dragged...' feels very much like a repetition of the first line
(and it's not adding anything new)

He always sat by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the pansies grow; but still he smiled
- could you go for 'but still smiling' ? You've 'he' a lot here.
('watching the pansies grow' seems very close to 'counting
bees...')
when I said hello, and sometimes he mentioned The War
- feels like you've skipped over something, between 'hello'
and 'the War'

Bit provocative, perhaps, but do you really need 'The War'?
(It's in the back-story, but not in the poem...again!)
I think cutting the children was a mistake, they explained
'alone' and added depth (the accruing debt ... well, that's
another matter
Just a (probably too radical) suggestion.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
'too busy these days to even call', but still smiling
when I said hello. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place for counting bees and memories


Regards, Not.

.

[David]

If Wild Bill could call a poem The Old Cumberland Beggar you can certainly call one The Old Miner. But not The Hewer, I think.

Cheers

David

[JJWilliamson]

Hi again, Not. Thank you very much for looking over this one again.

.
The Hewer
Still not there with the title JJ ...No, agreed. I might use "Eva's Birds" eventually but for now I'm going back to the original.


I watched him labour up the path again, as though his
- any way to not end the line with 'as though his', just
seems a bit weak for an opening. ...Yes, it's worth reviewing. Not a bad point.
spine and pelvis had fused into one arthritic bone,
his old walking stick bent like a miner’s prop.
- a bent walking stick?

I heard a familiar voice, coarse and unsteady
- either 'his' or 'that, 'a' invites the question 'whose voice' ...I like the idea of hearing a voice and quickly recognising it. It adds a touch of interest on the behalf of the speaker.
with age, calling to the blackbirds, repeating
- any alternative to 'repeating' Maybe start his speech
with "Come, come" ? ...I like the idea of extending his call. Again, I'll experiment.
“My little canaries” as he dragged his scarred leg
- 'as he dragged...' feels very much like a repetition of the first line ...I'm ok with it to be honest; at least I am for now.
(and it's not adding anything new)

He always sat by the back door, alone, spending
hours watching the pansies grow; but still he smiled
- could you go for 'but still smiling' ? You've 'he' a lot here.
('watching the pansies grow' seems very close to 'counting
bees...')
when I said hello, and sometimes he mentioned The War
- feels like you've skipped over something, between 'hello'
and 'the War' ...It introduces the niceties of their casual meeting, where a simple hello sometimes leads to more.

Bit provocative, perhaps, but do you really need 'The War'? ...I think I do, given the war he's been fighting all his life.
(It's in the back-story, but not in the poem...again!)
I think cutting the children was a mistake, they explained
'alone' and added depth ...Yes, it's one to reconsider, but was it crucial, given that we can see he's alone.?

(the accruing debt ... well, that's
another matter
Just a (probably too radical) suggestion.

He always sat by the back door, alone, children
'too busy these days to even call', but still smiling
when I said hello. The narrow bench he rested on
was her seat, a quiet place for counting bees and memories ...Cuts too much methinks.


Regards, Not.

.

Thanks again, Not, for your time and effort.

JJ


Hi, David

Yes, I'm having a bit of a time with it, and I think the original was not so bad after all. I still quite like the idea of "Eva's Birds" but the connection might be too vague. Don't know, if I'm honest.

Reverted to the original for the time being.

Best

JJ

[capricorn]

Hi JJ

I quite like 'Eva's Birds' as it's not too obvious - or perhaps 'Eva's Seat'.

Some have said they would like this to end on a place to 'paint memories'. I can understand why you want to end on 'his tired face'. You could change the order round to -

a private place to hide his tired face and paint memories.

Just a thought

Eira