#1
Mice

Mice scratch, scuffle and scrape when
I'm lying in bed, dead still,
and desperately trying to sleep.

We've had them before, in the loft,
discovered by my father as he put away
the Christmas tree on a January morning.
The traps went up the same afternoon.

Though this time, I listen to their pawing,
their search across the thin flooring
for tidbits and nick-knacks to build a home.
They've become quite an attachment.
I think there's four, though to be sure
I'd have to go and tell him.

But then he'd bring the ladder in from the shed outside
and ask for my strong arms to help him carry it up the stairs.
With no sign of hesitation, apart from the stiffness in his back,
he would trample up the steps and lay those wooden death traps.
I knew I would go to bed that night, not sleep, but press
my ear onto the wall, the part between the door frame and the ceiling,
silent except my breath.

Then like a whip-crack the trap would clap
and my ear would try to pick up the sound
of any movement across the plasterboard.
Not a squeal or a squirm came from above.
Just the weighty emptiness of death.

So I won't tell him.
I'll keep the pests a secret, not a soul will know.
I'll let them live as long as nature wishes.
I'll feign a cough, or falsely trip so that any crack
or creak in wood seems like it's nothing odd or strange.

The mice will scuttle and scurry around my head
for a time, until the past wants them instead.


C4C. Rip it up, if thou wish.
#2

I can't tell you that I liked it. Not because I didn't, but because it didn't affect me in any way whatsoever, for m to even feel that much of anything towards it.

You can write, and you give more detailed crits than anyone. But at the end of the day there are no mice in my life and this just seemed to be about the droll sensibilities and trivial eprsonal attatchments of life, and not about living. There was no spark, no attatchment, nothing to push it forward and connect. It was a poem about mice, not a bad one by any means, but that's al it was to me. And I tend to look for more than that.

Sorry if that made no sense, I'm half cut.




love is a dog from hell.



#3
I appreciate the comment man.

Hell, when are you not on the sweet stuff?

I'll take what you said on board. But maybe you missed my (albeit, not innovative) double meaning from the last two lines.

Thanks. I'll get back to you sometime.
#4

I saw those lines. They hit me, but they didn't hit me hard. I got the meaning but it felt like a waste. I have one up now that no one has read, perhaps listen to some Fleetwood Mac first though.




love is a dog from hell.



#5
Quote by Jammydude44
Mice

Mice scratch, scuffle and scrape when
I'm lying in bed, dead still,
and desperately trying to sleep.

This was a good beginning to the piece, and had one of those rhythms where you don't know if it's working out until the last word. And it definitely did work out, I enjoyed these lines

We've had them before, in the loft,
discovered by my father as he put away
the Christmas tree on a January morning.
The traps went up the same afternoon.

Not anything particularily powerful, but it does add some depth. Since it's now clear that this is casually worded. It also adds extra information about what's going on, which I like doing in writing like this.

Though this time, I listen to their pawing,
their search across the thin flooring
for tidbits and nick-knacks to build a home.
They've become quite an attachment.
I think there's four, though to be sure
I'd have to go and tell him.

Not too sure how I feel about these lines, they didn't particularily stand out to me in any way... Though the first three lines were better than the second three.

But then he'd bring the ladder in from the shed outside
and ask for my strong arms to help him carry it up the stairs.
With no sign of hesitation, apart from the stiffness in his back,
he would trample up the steps and lay those wooden death traps.
I knew I would go to bed that night, not sleep, but press
my ear onto the wall, the part between the door frame and the ceiling,
silent except my breath.

This I liked. It left a very vivid image in my head, and it read smoothly. I tried picking out a favourite line from this, but couldn't.

Then like a whip-crack the trap would clap
and my ear would try to pick up the sound
of any movement across the plasterboard.
Not a squeal or a squirm came from above.
Just the weighty emptiness of death.

Loved the playful wording of the first line, but everything else fell short. Maybe it's just that everything was so bland compared to the first line, that it felt like it should be more... bold? I'm not sure what other word I could use there, but hopefully you understand what I'm saying

So I won't tell him.
I'll keep the pests a secret, not a soul will know.
I'll let them live as long as nature wishes.
I'll feign a cough, or falsely trip so that any crack
or creak in wood seems like it's nothing odd or strange.

I like where this sits in the story you have laid out, just as I do the position of all other sections of the piece... But I didn't really enjoy some of the wording. The last line feels too drawn out, which is the biggest problem. Aside from that, it serves a good purpose and wasn't terrible

The mice will scuttle and scurry around my head
for a time, until the past wants them instead.

Creative use of words here, and I just loved it. One of my favourite things to see is somebody saying something that you hear done so many times the same way, said differently. And it was a very suitable ending to a good read, it didn't end the piece overly strong or overly weak.



Tried giving as good a critique as I could, though I'm quite sleepy. But this was very good, I'd give it an 8/10 at the least. I absolutely love writing that is done so casually... I personally have a tendency of adding sarcasm to my work. Anyways, I enjoyed this quite a bit.

If you'd like, pretty please, crit one of the pieces in my sig. Doesn't really matter which one, though (as the sig says) I is the most recent.