poetry critical : poem

achromatic

We can't just die, men need wine and poetry at least.
Oh Mao, poet Mao, not boss Mao,
Here in America wine is laughed and poetry a joke.
Death's a grim reminder of everybody already dead,
Crashing in cars all around here.

Here men and women dryly scowl at poets' sad attempts
To make our lot a whole lot lesser.

I, a poet, suffer even from bugs I find upside down
Dying in the grass.
So I drink wine, alone
I shudder to think how

dead the astronauts are going to a dead* moon*	1
of no wine.	2

the snow is whiter than tomorrow	3
those aging bleached eyebrows	4
and faded lackluster hair	5
a cadaverous face lined with flawless skin	6
is this what years of penance has done for you, Sibyl?	7

the sky is a lifeless white,	8
dreary with facing another day	9
it is flat and unpassioned	10
like the cardboard cut-outs	11
of sickly, colourless men who aimlessly wander the streets	12
is this your utopia?	13

uncoloured, uninspired, unanimated	14
your bones are pale white, too	15
resting pallid in that dry desert	16
where the sand is spiritless and chalky.	17
everything is so drab it has become difficult	18
to define one whisper of a ghost from another.	19
your washed out colours mourn,	20
did you cry yourself out of tears too?	21

there is a dreary moan in the dead air	22
it is the blanched echo of a sickly cry	23
that sticks in the back of one's throat	24
dry and dull like waxen egg whites	25
there are no souvenirs here, everything is unmemorable.	26

your insipid smile has become boring	27
faded like a worn out toy	28
ripped at the seams, its guts splayed out	29
to the ashen world.	30
we don't bother to lock our neutral hearts away anymore	31
the exciting game is through through through.	32

once you were tamed and leashed	33
and tied up to the post like a dog	34
it wasn't fun to play with you	35
so i just walked off, left you to rot	36
hoping your glimmering white bones wouldn't be as boring	37
as your flesh (and fur).	38

but they were.	39

those characterless bones made me	40
cry the colours out of the prosaic world.	41

everyone wants to be strapped in a hopeless space suit	42
where they can't move	43

27 Nov 04

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Comments:

Interesting. Very good construction and good control of imagery overall. It has a very strong, raw feeling most of the time, but it also has an unfortunate tendency to be drifting close to melodrama and general histrionic-ness.

I'm not sure why ll.1-2 are in italics and continue the same direct thought as the foreword. Likewise, I don't know why 42-43 are also italicized. In the former, it makes it look as though it's still part of the footnote. That must have been intentional, but I don't see a reason for doing it. I like the thought, I think the lines themselves are quite good (they're growing on me as I read them, really) but why so similar to the header? If it's a little bit of monologue, someone speaking, that's also good but the format doesn't give that impression.

I thought l.3-28 were the best part of the whole. They have a kind of leaden, heavy feeling to them that's very appopriate, very fine. The persistent image that I got throughout that segment was of the moon , assisted by the forenote. After that, the image started to drift away a bit and get a little less concrete. That could just be my sole interpretation of it, but all the talk of whiteness, lifelessness, desert etc. really made me think of the lunar dunes and ravines.

I also liked the final rhyme in ll38-39. An unexpected little bit of emphasis. I think the header is a bit histrionic and I'm trying to decide if that's intentional. I think not, but only you could say. It's a little overly dramatic and that hurts the somber feeling of the body a little. Overall, an excellent poem. Good work.
— dandy

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