| Author | Message | ||
| Emusing
Moderator Username: emusing Post Number: 1966 Registered: 08-2003 |
My weekly challenge entry. Before I do any edits, feedback appreciated. Second Revision: This Room is an artic hour. Walls painted white with amnesia. The nurses open doors, close them. I hear the starched sounds of exit and entry. I pry open the hands of the clock until they twist counterclockwise, propel time backwards into birth and death. My lives, dress and undress with alacrity— like an H.G. Wells novel. Tick 1897: A dinner on the lawn with Salomé. I spill my wine, watch memories spread the hand sewn linens. Her lips are blackberries. I am jealous of the rosewood pen she rolls between her fingers. Notice the Dali-like suspension of the white basin. It offers the occasional dribble, sanctified, as if visitors should make the sign of the cross—a benediction. The squeal of the tiles sticks to the nurse’s shoes. Tock 1875: My male cry is a pitchfork. I’m not the girl my mother wanted. She smothers me in mauve petticoats. Paints my cheeks with rouge from a purple clay teapot. Here is my latest work Screaming to be Heard. It has been three weeks and you are here to witness my death. The doctor calls -- injects me with the blood of Orpheus. Warns, I must never look back. This Room is an arctic hour. Walls painted white with amnesia. The nurses open doors, close them. I hear the starched sounds of exit and entry. Water cascades from the fake pond like a Chilean rain stick. I scramble up the wall, pry open the hands of the clock until they twist counterclockwise, propel time backwards into birth and death. My lives, dress and undress with alacrity like an H.G. Wells novel. There is a faded ticket in my pinstripe from a Fall Home & Garden Show. Tick 1897: A dinner on the lawn with Salomé. I spill my wine, watch memories spread like stains across the hand sewn linens. Her lips are blackberries. I am jealous of the engraved rosewood pen she rolls between her fingers. Who is “Sydney Hadden”? The white basin suspends, Dali-like. It offers the occasional dribble, sanctified, as if visitors should make the sign of the cross. The squeal of the tiles sticks to the nurse’s shoes. Tock 1875: My male cry is a pitchfork. I’m not the girl my mother wanted. She smothers me in mauve petticoats. Paints my cheeks with rouge from a purple clay teapot. Quickly before I disappear. Here is my latest work: Screaming to be Heard. Take it to my publisher. It has been three weeks and you are here to witness my death. The doctor calls -- injects me with the blood of Orpheus. Warns, I must never look back. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Senior Member Username: garyb Post Number: 5165 Registered: 07-2001 |
E, well written, but let me suggest something... M gave us a list of items in the room, but would your final poem work better with changes in the list - the name on the pen, the ticket, title of the book. Please think on where you can go with your own. Smiles. Gary The Eye of the Coming Storm http://www.mindfirerenew.com/ | ||
| Emusing
Moderator Username: emusing Post Number: 1978 Registered: 08-2003 |
Gar agreed. I'll try closer to the original work and see how that goes. Posted a revision above. Thanks and smiles. E | ||
| Lazarus
New member Username: lazarus Post Number: 47 Registered: 10-2005 |
I like the new version. Everything goes together like a puzzel. | ||
| Bren
Advanced Member Username: bren Post Number: 1118 Registered: 12-2001 |
My second haunting read of the day. Really E this is spooky and wonderful with sound and emotion! The squeal of the tiles sticks to the nurse’s shoes. I wondered about changing this to what I have below because in my head I'm thinking the tiles squeal because they're stuck to the shoe but I may be thinking too much! haha it happens sometimes.  The squeal from tiles stuck to the nurse’s shoes. Bren PenShells | ||
| Penelope
Intermediate Member Username: penelope Post Number: 304 Registered: 07-2005 |
E, this was superb. I like the revision even more. (Not sure I understand why you've set apart this phrase "Paints my cheeks with rouge from a purple clay teapot," and treated it as a sentence, though.) Penelope | ||
| Kathy Paupore
Senior Member Username: kathy Post Number: 2618 Registered: 12-2003 |
E, well-done. I must admit that the "nurse" drew me in, my profession, and the read kept me there. Suspenseful! K | ||
| LJ Cohen
Moderator Username: ljc Post Number: 3111 Registered: 07-2002 |
E--some suggestions for the revision. This is stronger without all of the items from the challenge. I'm not sure about the italics for the hospital stanzas--I would almost set the other stanzas apart. Some suggestions and comments in-line. This Room is an artic hour. Walls painted white with amnesia. The nurses open doors, close them. I hear the starched sounds of exit and entry. <--this whole stanza really rocks. Love the white of amnesia, the starched doors. I think you missed some opportunity for better enjambment with the short ending line of the stanza. Perhaps bring 'I pry open the hands' up to the last line of the provious stanza? I pry open the hands of the clock until they twist counterclockwise, propel time backwards into birth and death. My lives, dress and undress with alacrity— like an H.G. Wells novel. <--I would end this stanza at 'alacrity' Tick 1897: A dinner on the lawn with Salomé. I spill my wine, watch memories spread the hand sewn linens. Her lips are blackberries. I am jealous of the rosewood pen she rolls between her fingers.<--I would set this in italics Notice the Dali-like suspension of the white basin. It offers the occasional dribble, sanctified, as if visitors should make the sign of the cross—a benediction. The squeal of the tiles sticks to the nurse’s shoes. <--this image felt odd,somehow, though it does go with the Dali-eque theme Tock 1875: My male cry is a pitchfork. I’m not the girl my mother wanted. She smothers me in mauve petticoats. Paints my cheeks with rouge from a purple clay teapot. <--again, italics here Here is my latest work Screaming to be Heard. It has been three weeks and you are here to witness my death. The doctor calls -- injects me with the blood of Orpheus. Warns, I must never look back. <--alternate line breaks for this stanza Here is my latest work Screaming to be Heard. It has been three weeks and you are here to witness my death. The doctor calls -- injects me with the blood of Orpheus. Warns, I must never look back. <--perhaps a twist on this "warns/you must never look back"? is the 'you' the mother in the previous stanza? An eerie piece, E. best, ljc http://ljcbluemuse.blogspot.com/ | ||
| Emusing
Moderator Username: emusing Post Number: 1985 Registered: 08-2003 |
Lazarus thanks for coming by! I'm glad it all fit for you. Bren, yup that line is a bit odd. It was actually intentional. Glad to have spooked you out! Pen you are absolutely right. A definite oversight on my part. Thanks for catching that! Hi Kathy! Glad you liked the nurse bit. Hope your move goes well. Lisa thanks so much for taking time with this. I really love the first stanza. I think the others could unfold in a smoother pattern. Perhaps working with the enjambment will help. I'm going to work on a rewrite based on many of your suggestions. One thing that is not clear is the reference to the italics. Did you mean for only the last lines of those particular stanzas you highlighted to be italicized? Spook E | ||
| LJ Cohen
Moderator Username: ljc Post Number: 3119 Registered: 07-2002 |
E--(love the 'spook e' LOL!) No--I mean for those entire stanzas to be italiziced. So you would be setting off the 'fantasy' stanzas rather than the hospital ones. Good luck with your revision and I look forward to the final. best, ljc http://ljcbluemuse.blogspot.com/ |
