Thu Dec 10, 2009 5:23 pm
I have a pretty fair idea that what I'm about to say to you will not meet with joyful approbation so if you want to fling your pint glass at the wall, do it now. Crash! Well, that's done.
The attitude towards form is excellent, there is no evidence of slavish conformity of any kind and I admire the run-on lines and the way a sentence stops in the middle of a line. Reminds me of a chap I know. The problem, such as it is, is not with form or with theme ... sure, any fuckin theme is all right. The problem is with the adjectives, the language overload. Keep things as lean and clean as you can. Don't tell us too much, particularly if it makes us lose the thread of what's happening. I'm not sure how to explain what I think I am trying to say apart from example and, basically, re-writing ... which is presumptuous and gives rise to a sense of anger which I fully understand.
Now you know why I hate writing crits. It was never just an excuse for laziness. I hate and despise it to the centre of my being because I know what follows: pained acceptance, a few words of protest, good sportsmanship, hurt feelings ... and a spurt of deep subterranean hatred!
Good place to stop. I don't mind crits myself because no matter how hurtful and slashing and demeaning they may be, I don't give a fuck. It takes a few years of writing to get there. It doesn't mean you don't listen; it means you don't listen to idiots who don't understand -- and that cuts down the field.
Let's take a look at your first couple of stanzas:
Half-full or half-empty, the wardrobe's
still hard to tilt and turn. Next she
will assail the walls with a ladder,
deal blinding white to the skirting
in grim, workaholic silence till her
aura washes out exhausted on the couch.
Half-full, half-empty, the wardrobe's
hard to tilt and turn. She will
assail the walls with a ladder,
slap white on the skirting, exude
her grim workaholic silence until
that aura exhausts us all
It's not quite there, but I'm trying to follow you and get a rhythm going.
Your energy, he'd often said, can
pass beyond the body's sheath, a
swirling kaleidoscope that renders
skin and bone mere mirage, a
colour-photo feast for psychics
to pick over at lawyer rates.
Your energy, our Dad often said,
passes beyond the body's ken,
you're a whirlwind of a girl, ...................... you was always a whirlwind type of lass
your skin and bone a mere mirage
... and the rest of it, I'm sorry, I can't follow.
The point I am trying to make is that you have to keep the flow going as you tell the story ... and it is a story, of course it is a story! ... but you need to keep a rhythm so that one line leads on to the next.
I hope in all honesty that I have not offended you ... well, not unneccessarily. It is the most devilishly tricky thing to interfere in other people's poems. I have made no secret of my dislike of having to write comments on other people's work. I hate having to do so as the price of remaining on the PG Forum ... a bloody great forum, BTW. Somebody listening? Good, good ... but there's always room for improvement!! Criticism, however benign and well-meaning, inevitably crosses the threshold of privacy if it actually comes to terms with the writing as something separate from the writer. With poetry, in particular, where emotions so often become closely engaged, this can be a delicate barrier.
Do not hesitate to question me.
Nollaig Shona,
Bren
How many points is that to me? 
