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Walls [poetry]
The Crowing One
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
I haven't been about these parts for awhile, but I've been itching to expand a bit of crit on this piece.
Walls
I asked the questions I wish you had asked me:
“Does the evening mean the end of the day?” and
“Can we leave by the fire exit?”
It barely felt indoors, the sweet scent of wet mulch
wafted through an open window; that woman’s hair
streaming, for but a second, across her face.
Indoors, we spoke of walls. Your hands soft,
as if they had never lifted a stone or tossed a rock
into the lake behind your home. Stone walls, dating
back to a time when the trees looked differently,
needed to be moved. “The addition runs through them”
you said, half-ashamed, over the din of slowly dying conversation.
And then we were there: half-asleep as if early morning, not a word
from my lips and not a sound in your ear
we pitched rock and soil and made way for the machines.
Leaping along boundary stones, the walls
between us, the walls amongst us. Do not listen
but open ears and eyes and hands to grasp and shut
and blink and borrow, for a moment, the sound
of hairpins dropping; for a moment, the smell
of flowers blooming. In caution of history
we must become walls of stone, still-sitting in waiting
for the day they come to tear us down.
Walls
I asked the questions I wish you had asked me:
“Does the evening mean the end of the day?” and
“Can we leave by the fire exit?”
It barely felt indoors, the sweet scent of wet mulch
wafted through an open window; that woman’s hair
streaming, for but a second, across her face.
Indoors, we spoke of walls. Your hands soft,
as if they had never lifted a stone or tossed a rock
into the lake behind your home. Stone walls, dating
back to a time when the trees looked differently,
needed to be moved. “The addition runs through them”
you said, half-ashamed, over the din of slowly dying conversation.
And then we were there: half-asleep as if early morning, not a word
from my lips and not a sound in your ear
we pitched rock and soil and made way for the machines.
Leaping along boundary stones, the walls
between us, the walls amongst us. Do not listen
but open ears and eyes and hands to grasp and shut
and blink and borrow, for a moment, the sound
of hairpins dropping; for a moment, the smell
of flowers blooming. In caution of history
we must become walls of stone, still-sitting in waiting
for the day they come to tear us down.
The Crowing One on
Posts
I think you may have written past the ending. The last stanza feels like the narrator decided to stand on a soap box for me.
I like this line break
I'm unsure about the repetition and variation on indoors from stanzas 2 and 3. It barely felt indoors; what barely felt indoors? Am I outside here? And does that mean the next stanza is inside?
I like the questions. The first one borders on too obvious, but the second one picks it back up quite nicely.
I think 'slowly' gets in the way here. I like the phrase "din of dying conversation". Slowly ruins the sound for me.
I think this phrase can be expanded
How do they look differently? I do not even know what they look like currently. How does that difference help reflect the mood?
Is there anything you have questions on?
I tried to work with the indoor/outdoor, because I think it's somewhat important. I can see how it would be confusing from not-my-point-of-view.
Draft 2:
Walls
1.
I asked the questions I wish you had asked me,
sitting dim in the back of your favorite dive:
“Does the evening mean the end of the day?” and
“Will you pick up the tab, this time?”
It barely felt indoors, the sweet scent of wet mulch
wafted through an open window; a woman’s hair
streaming, for but a second, across her face.
Here we spoke of your walls. All I could think of
were your soft hands, as if they had never lifted a stone
or tossed a rock into the lake behind your home. "The fieldstones
need to be moved. The addition runs through them”
you said, half-ashamed, over the din of dying conversation.
2.
And then we were there: half-asleep as if early morning, not a word
from my lips and not a sound in your ear
we pitched rock and soil and made way for the machines.
Leaping along boundary stones, the wall
rising to knees between us. And I can only believe
that I must not listen but open ears and eyes
and hands to grasp and shut and blink and borrow
these bits of the earth. For a moment: the sound
of hairpins dropping; for a moment: the smell
of moths drifting toward light. Become walls of stone,
still-sitting in waiting for the day they come to tear us down.
The last stanza feels stronger though. The feeling of talking at me has left, which welcomes me into that stanza.
I need to head back to work, but those area few of my initial impressions on the revision.
I went through a long period of non-lyric, very imperative voiced language. I started at that last paragraph and worked my way back around, so where I was at the beginning and where it ended up was so drastically different. I had such an itch for another pair of eyes because of stuff like that. I don't bat an eye at the imperative, but that's because I'm so biased. I'm much happier with that, as well.
The split between the two sections I'm, er, split on. On one hand I wanted to address the inside/outside with a more concrete barrier. On the other I feel as if it may be unnecessary. I'm leaning toward keeping, but am uncertain.
The idea of the characters sitting on stone walls?
I liked this description,
You might not need a "2" if the 2nd stanza just mentions fieldstones again. "There" creates ambiguoity, but in this instance also potential and unnecessary confusion. Since the dive is mentioned in the first part and fieldstones as the setting for the 2nd, that may be enough to create a barrier between places.
If the questions are throw-aways, then it seems the thing the reader does need to come across is the location. The questions could help place at the reader at a place? Or maybe the place could be a new focus for the stanza?
Like I said before, I like this newer version. Still tho, from dive to fieldstones I feel something is missing. Like the poem is incomplete: there's a beginning and an ending but I'm unsure of the middle.
Maybe that is my own demons surfacing.
I don't think the questions should be throw-aways. Mundane, okay, but essentially irrelevant? Eek.
I am not sure whether I like "sitting dim" because it can apply to both the setting and the character. It is a neat turn of phrase and its imprecision may be its strength, but for some reason it's nagging at me.
I think the comma in the first line makes more sense as a period or a semicolon, and the semicolon in the next line makes more sense as a comma. If you change that, I would make "streaming" instead "streamed" for consistency. I also don't like "for but a second" because it sounds kind of archaic and forced. It's a good image but the words aren't there yet.
I think I'd only change two things: "were your hands, soft as if" instead of what you have, and add a comma after "them" in the dialogue.
Be back later for the second half.
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I changed and tightened the tenses from part one (past) to part two (present). With a knowing break this seems enough to create a separation in time and place. It's a try, and I'm wondering how that worked out.
In particular to the feeling that "something is missing", it's more intentional. I tend to err on the side of less concrete than more, engaging in the concrete to create momentary fasteners to which we may anchor ourselves. Against the current trend? you bet. I've been working with that sort of thing for years, and this is far from an extreme example. Maybe I can dig up an example... Ah, yes:
Begins by the absence of ink— one must scratch words into the paper: to become a violence.
Where the day ends a small leaf has fallen across sky lit by vapors and smog,
the incense which dies in a small breeze smelling of cigar smoke and refuse.
He pulled weeds and patted the soil, his hands were dirty and he couldn’t bear to wash them: they’re all I’ve got left of the ground where I was planted.
And the sun was doing something—unable to tell if it was rising or falling—the birds waited what seemed a sanctified moment before breaking the silence with their clamor. Motor-sounds spilled into the edge of hearing; there was hymn and chanting in the distance
and nothing here. Someone left the front porch and stumbled back indoors, rubbing eyes burned with cotton pillows and comfort. A few moments, and then hiding in a cave like sun on copper.
An absence begins anew by tearing at crumpled paper. The door is heavy and the tulips germinate amongst horse dung and aphids.
But that's a different beast, and the process is more delicate in more lyric-minded verse. Food for thought, still.
I made a bunch of little edits based on all the small things, as well. I really can't disagree with most of them.
1.
I asked the questions I wish you had asked me,
sitting dim in the back of your favorite dive:
“Does the evening mean the end of the day?” and
“Will you pick up the tab, this time?”
It barely felt indoors, the sweet scent of wet mulch
wafted through an open window. A woman’s hair
streamed for a moment across her oval face.
Here we spoke of your walls. All I could think of
were your soft hands, as if they had never lifted a stone
or tossed a rock into the lake behind your home. "The fieldstones
need to be moved. The addition runs through them,”
you said, half-ashamed, over the din of dying conversation.
2.
And then we are there: half-asleep as if early morning, not a word
from my lips and not a sound in your ear
we pitch rock and soil and make way for the machines.
Leaping along boundary stones, the wall
rising to knees between us. And I can only believe
that I must not listen but open ears and eyes
and hands to grasp and shut and blink and borrow
these bits of earth. For this moment: the sound
of hairpins dropping; for this moment: the smell
of moths drifting toward light. Become walls of stone,
in waiting for the day we tear ourselves down.
The ending tho, oh, you switched it to "we" tear ourselves down from "they". I rather enjoyed the "they" more as it provided me the over-arching feeling of helplessness and also it makes more sense with the metaphor of brick walls. Do brick walls really tear themselves down?