as i was watching 'so you think you can dance' a judge commented on a choreographer. the judge said that not one step is made that is not from the soul. this choreographer has to be convicted of something in order to dance. and so that is my new mission for poetry. no more thought or mechanical process, just heart and conviction and soul. and maybe that doesn't have a place in the poetry world (i hope it does) and this is no means an example of such. i wish it were. but as i go on this journey, here is my first step:
Blood stained strings tightened
around the neck of a guitar
reveal my raw underbelly.
Some large toddler has snatched
the orb of my life and is shaking
it, demanding with anger
some meaning or amusement.
My precious china stammers
off of shelves and explodes.
Ceiling dust clogs my throat,
my tears. I tuck my knees and rawness
inside, a pathetic tactic
for protection. My cheek bruises,
ribs splinter, and fingers bleed as I
attempt to appease with song.
sometimes there just aren't words for what you mean, and i find that frustrating. it makes me want to read dictionaries (i call a character who reads dictionaries) and thesauruses so i can say exactly what i mean with the precise force and gut that it requires.
sometimes i wish writing was more physical. but that's the challenge, isn't it? thanks for the thoughts and patience. much love,
emilea
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1 comment:
Just...wow. I can't really think of another first reaction. This poem is so strong. It just kind of hits you, which is what it is trying to do, so that's definitely a good thing. It's so vivid. I particularly like the second stanza. It's wonderfully detached from the actual situation, while still being completely relevant and forming the perfect image and metaphor. It's interesting.
My suggestions for improvement just include one: fill out your triangle. You have brilliant images, tons of strong emotions, but you're only three quarters of the way there with concept. I would have no idea what this was about without the second and last lines. I still love it, but it could be stronger. You're never done revising. That's one of the many things our brilliant teachers taught us last summer.
Love it so much, though. It almost hurts to read it. Which is definitely a good thing.
Heather
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