| Author | Message | ||
| Tammy Turner-Peaden
Intermediate Member Username: heartstarter Post Number: 16 Registered: 03-2004 |
Chest deep in bramble and bog, pre-dawn chill rubs my shoulders, kisses the back of my neck where collar parts company with hair. Fingers shoved in my pocket fondle rounds stored there; loose extras in case the three slips in my pack are not enough to piss off Pan. Core-Lokt soft-point, "The deadliest mushroom in the woods", or so says Remington on the back of their olive green box. It's here I flirt with madness- watch day lift above a night of sweats and rapid-fire recall; not the hunter but the hunted, bound to the now by thread, by thorn. Dali has brushed me onto yesteryears' canvas, a warped study in camouflaged oils, crossing Thai Binh on a sampan heavy with mortars and babies dressed in drab rolling weed in yellow papers that taste of banana. Cramped joints bid my mind relax; relax, for you have seen mushrooms in the bush with nary a round to finger, no thirty-ought-six nestled against your crotch like salvation's erection- just a clap bag full of mud and morphine. Dismal smells like Haiphong. Dank peat, moldered moss; the sulpher taint of swamp milkweed lines nostrils with a burn of memory. Fog-hung lowlands shine silver and purple and green; the dead men beneath those canopies grow bulrushes from their bones that sing in the breeze. Crouched deep in last year's deadfall, marsh sucks my boots with hungry insistence, holds the hunter's pose with rooted grip. My chest rises, falls; cold exhalations alone mark my presence. Whitetail watch from the woodline. when they move, I will not hear it; no crack of twig or rustle of leaf to signify their range. Soon, the bucks will forage the ground cover for fall bulbs, their racks dipped towards papered hooves- And I will fire into the wakening sky, round after round until muscles are loosed; until my tight canvas relaxes its stretch and spills a voice into the empty air- sharp retorts that hold no echo. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Senior Member Username: garyb Post Number: 5264 Registered: 07-2001 |
Cramped joints bid my mind relax; relax, for you have seen mushrooms in the bush with nary a round to finger, no thirty-ought-six nestled against your crotch like salvation's erection- just a clap bag full of mud and morphine. Tammy, this is a v strong poem, made for a short list. Normally, I would wonder at the lines middle on increasing in length and wondering if 20% might go, but not in this case. Not to say, the poem might not benefit if cut - most poems might - but there is no way to find what in these lines, so I will not try nor ask you to. Smiles. Gary The Eye of the Coming Storm http://www.mindfirerenew.com/ | ||
| LJ Cohen
Moderator Username: ljc Post Number: 3164 Registered: 07-2002 |
Tammy, This is a strong read. My only nit is the title, which does not seem specific enough or strong enough for the language of the poem. I was flored by the stanza Gary quotes. Well done. best, ljc http://ljcbluemuse.blogspot.com/ | ||
| Emusing
Moderator Username: emusing Post Number: 2029 Registered: 08-2003 |
Not to say that the first 3 stanzas are not superb but since the heart of the piece seems to begin with: It's here I flirt with madness- watch day lift above a night of sweats and rapid-fire recall; not the hunter but the hunted, bound to the now by thread, by thorn. Dali has brushed me onto [yesteryears'] canvas, a warped study in camouflaged oils, crossing Thai Binh on a sampan heavy with mortars and babies dressed in drab rolling weed in yellow papers that taste of banana. You loose little in this thicket of sensory images by beginning here. I think "yesteryear" sounds corny as a word and doesn't fit with the edgy intellect. A new title and good to go. My thoughts/opinions Tammy.  E | ||
| Tammy Turner-Peaden
Intermediate Member Username: heartstarter Post Number: 17 Registered: 03-2004 |
Thank you all for your kind comments and excellent suggestions; much appreciated! |
