#1
Something I wrote a while ago and just rewrote for a school publication/contest. The original can be found here.

Your pulse is a murmur, a dribble of the brook where my grandfather's heart used to sink. It was in the summer silence of Pennsylvania's evening that his memories, like an unconscious child, rose to the edges of that silver bank with the frogs and the silt.

He mumbled words and his face was mirrored and melancholy in the water. The current carries everything that becomes too weak to carry its own weight. Sometimes his accent would make words carry more meaning than they were meant. I was small and my mind was clay. He was strong and shaped me with ease.

I thought I'd find an answer in sleep, but when I slept I couldn't think, and when I woke it was already too late to find what I had left to float downstream. A trail in the woods won't keep what I meant as a secret, and they will find the excuses, wisped out of the ears of old acquaintances with the rest of their high school experiences.

On your wrist with thin blue veins, your flesh like paper, my fingers like roots, pressing down to give you life, or maybe just to make sure you're still alive. You shift in the sheets, in the dark, in the reflective glow of the screen. You tell me to stop. I tell you "I'm sorry", but not another word about making myself feel clean. Sqeaking springs on which we lie to each other, as I tire of using the faults of english to my advantage, thinking in vague possibilities of a lesson learned.

Anchored eyes count the minutes between stretches of sleeping limbs. I blink and numbers change. Sunday morning sounds; classic rocked in the garage, neighbors cut their grass, oven hummed with cinnamon rolls, birds sung their mating rituals. Back then, I knew how to lose my way around pinecones in the backyard without losing the dirt in my pocket. I knew what colors I could fill the sky, and not even care what colors really filled the sky. Years later, at some point between then and there, now and here, my head stuck deep in a bouquet of loneliness and confusion, I sneezed and forgot what life was.

The highway outside groans, metal rails glow gold, dawn drunks grow cold. Oh, what a life, what a terrible lie. I'm all heavy and concrete tonight. I sigh, "Let go, old road!" and turn over to kill the light. You've been asleep, in more than one way, for days but I trust your hollow wrist and the warmth of your pulse. Someday soon we'll go home, but I can't trust hope.
Last edited by system at Feb 26, 2007,
#2
i read through this once and i really loved it. i will give it a full crit tomorrow though cause im tired and i dont have enough time now but from my first read nice work.
#3
This is a great piece of literature. The descriptions were good and I liked how you switched it up sometimes in the freelance writing to the occasional rhyme. The whole direction of the poem keeps one interested while not losing them with all the scene changes. Changes are great if you can see it over time and it's not subtle.

I would like to go through the entire thing and pick out favorite parts and least, but that would take a lil bit of time that I don't have considering I already have to crit 4 poems by tomorrow for English. I must say the work as a whole was very well written and it ended on a great note.

It's mainly good because I don't see many poems like this here on UG and it's a nice change. If you feel inclined I do have one of my poems in my sig you can crit. Thanks for sharing this piece with us.
#4
It's too late for me to sort out all this, but you're guaranteed to get one from me tomorrow. Looks good from what I've read so far.
Wade in the water, child.
#5
I knew what colors I could fill the sky, and not even care what colors really filled the sky.
That line's my favorite.

I wish I didn't like this piece, so that I could give you a decent crit, but there's nothing I'd really change. The imagery is beautiful like no other.
Wade in the water, child.
#7
Quote by system
Something I wrote a while ago and just rewrote for a school publication/contest. The original can be found here.

Your pulse is a murmur, a dribble of the brook where my grandfather's heart used to sink. It was in the summer silence of Pennsylvania's evening that his memories, like an unconscious child, rose to the edges of that silver bank with the frogs and the silt.

great imagery, similies, metaphors here. definitely a solid start.

He mumbled words and his face was mirrored and melancholy in the water. The current carries everything that becomes too weak to carry its own weight. Sometimes his accent would make words carry more meaning than they were meant. I was small and my mind was clay. He was strong and shaped me with ease.

i love the 2nd line and the 3rd. but the 2nd was brilliant. the last line is a bit cliche, the whole clay/molding/shaping thing has been done too many times and you really didnt present it in a different way than anyone else who has used it has so basically it just loses all the power and effect that line should be carrying.

I thought I'd find an answer in sleep, but when I slept I couldn't think, and when I woke it was already too late to find what I had left to float downstream. A trail in the woods won't keep what I meant as a secret, and they will find the excuses, wisped out of the ears of old acquaintances with the rest of their high school experiences.

i love the first line. great start. one question why wont 'a trail in the woords keep what i meant as a secret'? i think you should maybe ellaborate on that with a follow up line, maybe not though. the rest of this is solid

On your wrist with thin blue veins, your flesh like paper, my fingers like roots, pressing down to give you life, or maybe just to make sure you're still alive. You shift in the sheets, in the dark, in the reflective glow of the screen. You tell me to stop. I tell you "I'm sorry", but not another word about making myself feel clean. Sqeaking springs on which we lie to each other, as I tire of using the faults of english to my advantage, thinking in vague possibilities of a lesson learned.

beautiful, this is awesome except i dont like the flesh like paper line. its a bit a cliche and could be improved on i think with a more creative similie

Anchored eyes count the minutes between stretches of sleeping limbs. I blink and numbers change. Sunday morning sounds; classic rocked in the garage, neighbors cut their grass, oven hummed with cinnamon rolls, birds sung their mating rituals. Back then, I knew how to lose my way around pinecones in the backyard without losing the dirt in my pocket. I knew what colors I could fill the sky, and not even care what colors really filled the sky. Years later, at some point between then and there, now and here, my head stuck deep in a bouquet of loneliness and confusion, I sneezed and forgot what life was.

brilliant

The highway outside groans, metal rails glow gold, dawn drunks grow cold. Oh, what a life, what a terrible lie. I'm all heavy and concrete tonight. I sigh, "Let go, old road!" and turn over to kill the light. You've been asleep, in more than one way, for days but I trust your hollow wrist and the warmth of your pulse. Someday soon we'll go home, but I can't trust hope.


this is again amazing. i like the personification of the highway, atleast thats what i think you're doing with that.


overall one of the best pieces ive read on ug in such a long long time.there are a few things you can change if you really want to but even if you dont this is 10/10