This is the beginning of what I thought would be a short story, but evolved into a prose poem. I would like to get some feedback, taking into account it's form. This is ready for readers, if I have any takers...
Thanks in advance,
T2
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Spring is the winter of my despair.
The forsythia bushes sulk like aging drama queens in the corner of the yard. Divested of their saffron robes, they wait impatiently for their leaves and clack bony arms in the wind. Daffodils poke up ice-covered heads in wan aspiration, and his peonies hide, still and deep, beneath their blanket of mulch.
Occasionally, a temperate breeze raps quietly at the storm door, hoping to lure me into its balmy embrace. It calls me out to weave crocus caps and knit snowdrop mufflers. To wrap myself in a hyacinth cloak and don aconite slippers as the branches bob enticingly beneath the robin egg sky. Yet the seasonal finery tastes bitter in the mouth of my vase.
If only I could have the bleakness of steel-gray winter skies at
[This message has been edited by Igwiz (edited January 15, 2008).]
posted
Ok, that could get old really quick. Stop! Don't freak out on me... don't toss it away. Make the sentences shorter and remove as many 'likes' and 'as ifs' as you possibly can. Try it again and let's see where we can go with this.
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posted
The forsythia bushes sulk like aging drama queens in the corner of the yard. Divested of their saffron robes, they wait impatiently for their leaves and clack bony arms in the wind. Daffodils poke up ice-covered heads in wan aspiration, and his (The "his" is a pronoun shift and is a little distracting.) peonies hide, still and deep, beneath their blanket of mulch.
Occasionally, a temperate breeze (Is it a breeze or a wind as in the last paragraph? Did it change?) raps quietly at the storm door, hoping to lure me into its balmy embrace. It calls me out to weave crocus caps and knit snowdrop mufflers, or to wrap myself in a hyacinth cloak and don aconite slippers as the branches bob enticingly beneath the robin egg sky. Yet the seasonal finery tastes bitter in the mouth of my vase. (I'm not sure about that last sentence. Do you mean you put the flowers in a vase? Why would that taste bitter?
If only I could have the bleakness of steel-gray winter skies at
I like the imagery. It seems you are painting a picture with words. It would be more powerful, in my opinion, were you to place the action (the breeze calling you out) at the front, and then move to description rather than going back and forth. Group like description together (ie. the flowers, then the sky, etc.) unless you are going for a disjointed, dreamy feel. As it is, it moves from the first dismal paragraph to a fanciful second paragraph and then touches back on bitter. What emotions are you wanting to portray? Is there any movement from one emotion to another within the piece, or are they all jumbled together?
If you tweak it a bit, go ahead and send the whole to me, I'd like to read the rest.
Yes, this pronoun is somewhat startling, but I like it. It doesn't pull me out of the work, it just makes me stop and consider: Who is "he"? Did he die? Is that what the despair is about? Or is something else going on? So I read on with anticipation to find out.
quote:It calls me out to weave crocus caps and knit snowdrop mufflers. To wrap myself in a hyacinth cloak and don aconite slippers
This sounds almost like "I" am Mother Nature, or Ceres, or someone. That would be cool; it changes everything (though it doesn't tell me who "he" is yet). Again, I want to know.
However, that interpretation doesn't seem to fit with "storm door". So maybe I'm being overzealous with my interpretation--or you, with your imagery.
quote:Yet the seasonal finery tastes bitter in the mouth of my vase.
Okay--I begin to feel lost. I get the feeling that this fits in with the notion of "I" being some sort of nature spirit, but I have to admit I don't quite see how it does. So maybe it doesn't. But then, what on earth could it mean?
I'll admit it; I'm not into poetry OR literary stuff. Just thought I'd give it a try here, since there's stuff in this that I like.
posted
SilverRain: Happy to send it, but I can't find your e-mail in your registration page. And you interpret it correctly. The second "paragraph/stanza" is the comparative set-up for the rest of the poem, and it is intended to be the warm, fuzzy opposite to the first line and the first stanza.
rickfisher: good catch on the his. This is an allegorical piece that explores both the actual and symbolic death of my father. We get to that later on, and the importantce of the peonies and "his" becomes much clearer.
posted
SilverRain, your email address isn't accessible on the forum.
If you want to keep it that way, that's fine, just email Igwiz by clicking on the little envelope icon above Igwiz's posts, and then Igwiz can email the whole thing to you.
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