#1
this is the first one in a while thats a real poem i want to revise. would be super cool if anyone wanted to give me a more in depth critique. this isnt even close to great yet, but i think it could be with adequate revision. crit for crit of course.


crying (a modified sestina for warren jeffs)

they filled the jail with a prophet,
who expanded like milk,
in a jar by the stove
she pours her thighs closed,

Texas sticks skin wet, in a stove
drips of gravy off little girl leg like milk,
prayer stuffed awkwardly, skewered lips closed,
red meat and red wine, red rose panties and a prophet;


tape her milk
legs open, stiff leather curtains, closed
eyelid stretched taught enough to tattoo “the prophet,
my princess, listen, coals writhe within the stove”

tied hands like full moons fingers closed
while stone wrists hover through loose air in the stove,
red meat and red wine, red rose panties and a prophet,
red cheese and red wheat, red sun sunk twelve years in the ceiling
Last edited by #1 synth at Aug 9, 2011,
#2
i think the repetition in here really helped build a certain aesthetic to the piece. i'm still can't really piece everything together here nor really get at what you're trying to get across (i can see where warren jeffs comes into play here and there, though) but there's definitely a mood that pervades the piece, an unsettling mood. and i feel like that at the end that's what stream of consciousness writing should accomplish: that feeling and atmosphere. and that's not to say that the content isn't in there somewhere (i did actually derive a lot of meaning from a few lines) but i couldn't totally grasp some of your imagery nor the symbolism behind the color red in this context. i guess for selfish reasons i'd like to see more clarity just so i could understand the piece better, but i also feel like doing that could compromise the mood you've built.
here, My Dear, here it is
#3
Quote by #1 synth
t
they filled the jail with a prophet,
who expanded like milk,
in a jar by the stove
she pours her thighs closed,

I hate that you start off with a "they" that you never revisit. It's like starting off saying "cheese nips" and writing a poem about the plight of the African Children. I also guess I'm just not following the milk image; it seems like the link between a milk expansion is weak (especially considering that due to it's fatty content milk doesn't actually expand very much given a higher temperature due to something like a stove). It seems like a bit of an absurdist image that you are trying to link to this prophet... but I'm not seeing how it develops anything. I'm with you at pours thighs closed, but that middle bit, meh... which makes the whole stanza seem week since you've spent four lines to introduce a non-horny prophet.

Texas sticks skin wet, in a stove
drips of gravy off little girl leg like milk,
prayer stuffed awkwardly, skewered lips closed,
red meat and red wine, red rose panties and a prophet;

Something about this seems off in the first line. I liked the development in the last two lines... the clearing of the stream of conscious bob-and-weave is a nice touch. Like a crystal clear girl in the foreground and a wet, hazy background in the back that makes the girl seem even more alive. I guess I'm clawing for some realism in a canyon of crazy broken pottery, but the opening line and it's first mate seem to introduce non-sensical haze than they bring in clarity for me. On my third reading, I've even started getting the feeling you are Jackson Pollocking these random lines in your head and calling them art, even though they seem to spiral into a reference to nothing. I'm just yearning for something to latch onto here that seems more solid than syrup.


tape her milk
legs open, stiff leather curtains, closed
eyelid stretched taught enough to tattoo “the prophet,
my princess, listen, coals writhe within the stove”

Hate your first line. In fact, I hate the whole milk line of thought in this piece. None of it has added anything for me, and I've spent so much time distracted by it's modernist, hippy bullshit that I've lost sight of any actual images/thoughts you've built in my brain. I don't get it... whether it's my fault or yours, I'm not sure... but it's not developing. I've thought maybe you were referencing breasts or beverages or white cloth or etc... but I'm getting no where. The other three lines though, those were beautiful. For the first time in this piece, I've felt like your "out there" images coalesced to form a strong, believable, and tasty image. This was like tables floating through the sky, and I managed to fall into a chair, scoot it up to the table and begin feasting... where as before, everytime I approached the chair you pulled it out from me with an image so over the top or uninteresting that I didn't even care about the turkey you had delicately roasted and placed at the center of the table.

tied hands like full moons fingers closed
while stone wrists hover through loose air in the stove,
red meat and red wine, red rose panties and a prophet,
red cheese and red wheat, red sun sunk twelve years in the ceiling



To be honest, for me at least, you've got nothing here, Dyl. I've clawed through it multiple times... each time searching in a different manner for a place where I think, "ah-hah! There is the morsel of truth tucked beneath the corn-flower of non-sense. Each time, I come away thinking... I got absolutely jack-shit from reading that. Nothing touched me... it's too far gone into your brain for me to reach out and touch it. I feel like I'd have to sit down and unlock the passcode to the piece... then I could translate it back from Dylan speech into real life, and then maybe I'd get something. As it is, every image is too foggy, every thought to ragged, every dog in the race has died and is chasing clouds across the sky... and I'm left as a rabbit on the banister running the track by myself thinking, "golly, it's a good day for a run, I wish my friends hadn't left me with such an uninteresting background when they died."

Not much of a critique, I suppose... more me bitching about not getting it. But it is what it is; I just couldn't find anything in this, Dylan. I don't see you, I don't see me, I don't see that girl I knew who lived across the street and let me pull her pigtails... i see nothing because I'm looking into a mirror that is so shrouded by the frost the owner placed on the glass, that I can't see any reflections at all.

I'd appreciate thoughts on the chosen one in my sig; if you get around to it, yo.
#4
word. i made some conscious decisions here that have decidedly not payed off. ah well, back to the drawing board.

thanks a lot you two. and, for those of you keeping score at home, that is how you leave an excellent, critical critique that actually helps someone notice the weakness in their own style to improve in subsequent pieces written in the same style.

of course i'll get to your zackk