Dreams of the Diptera (Second Revision), Wizard Award ~ Part I: "The Old Diver" Options

[azurepoetry]

*Graphic provided by
Celtic Castle Designs

Dreams of the Diptera
Part I: "The Old Diver"
Much thanks to everyone who has pushed me on.
This verision has more changes, but feels good.


Silver rings, snug around gnarled fingers,
echo the warble of shaky, front wheels
as he pushes a grocery cart,

behind markets, through vacant lots
to the next dumpster. He prods
the plastic lid open with his walking stick,

then claws aside sun-burnt dreadlocks,
rich in dandruff and dried sweat,
revealing squinty eyes -

as shrunken, black flies in late summer,
flutter and drop
along the top of packed garbage.

Dusty, desert wind - candid
like an amnesic sailor, who's forgotten
the salty spume of the ocean,

instead - returns
to dry age his jerky skin, subdue
stubborn breath from lips

that break apart, cough fluid
out of lungs preserved like canned fruit.
This ancient wind,

untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,
became his only constant...companion.

An old man of the sea and city,
now he champions a dying art, voodoo:
slurring curses and conversations with ghosts,

keeping a crumpled print of Mary for a fetish,
while he traces his divining rod through trash,
scrutinizing chicken or fish bones,

whose entrails have surrendered their future
to fleeing squirrels and rats.
Amidst the refuse, he explores

for relics of previous lives:
favorite sweaters, solitary earrings,
pocket watches with crippled springs,

each odd trinket
hooks his attention; he collects
and assigns them a proper history.

-------------------------------------------------------------
First Revision
He pushes a grocery cart full of salvaged treasures.
Silver rings on his hands, resound the clank
of his shaky front wheels, while he reconnoiters

behind closed stores, through vacant lots,
to the next dumpster, where he stops
and labors over the right equipment

for another dive. Atop a step ladder, diligently
he prods the plastic lid up
with rheumatic fingering of his walking stick.

Clawing aside sun-burnt dreadlocks
textured like ocean kelp, rich
with dander which reveal squinting eyes-

as shrunken black flies in late summer,
flutter and drop erratically
around the top of the packed garbage.

Wind, dusty instead of salty returns
dry-aging his jerky skin, subduing
stubborn breath from sand-blasted lips;

lips that break apart, mumble
fluid out of lungs preserved like canned fruit.
Ancient and candid, this wind,

untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,
became his only surviving constant...companion.

He champions a dying art, voodoo:
slurring curses and conversations with ghosts,
while he traces his divining rod through trash,

scrutinizing chicken or fish bones,
whose entrails have surrendered their future
to fleeing squirrels and rats.

Here, he explores for relics of previous lives:
favorite sweaters, solitary earrings,
or pocket watches with crippled springs.

Each odd trinket
hooks his unusual attention; he collects
and assigns, in his mind, a proper history,
befitting a seasoned treasure hunter.
--------------------------------------------------------------

Original Version
He pushes a grocery cart full of salvaged treasures
along alleyways, parking lots
to each dumpster

where shaky hands, like those front wheels
of his cart, stop
in preparation for the next dive.

Wheezing atop a rusted step ladder,
rheumatic fingers claw
sun-burnt kelp hair, rich with ashy dander.

Folding over, he stretches
an anchor tattoed arm once strong enough
to hold a first born son named “Skip”.

Eyes,
shrunken black flies in late summer,
fluttering erratically – searching,

while sterile, desert air
carefully dry-ages his already jerky skin
into fleshy strips, subdues

stubborn breath from sand blasted lips
mumbling out of fluid lungs,
preserved like canned fruit since

he was an orphan. Ancient and candid
this wind untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,

became his only surviving companion.
He champions a dying art,
voodoo

with his walking stick-
scrutinizing milk jugs and dissecting fish bones,
like entrails who’ve relinquished their

future to rats and squirrels-
looking for relics of previous lives:
favorite sweaters, solitary earrings

or pocket watches with busted springs.
Each odd trinket
hooks his unusual attention; he collects

and assigns a proper history, befitting
a seasoned treasure hunter
like himself.

Note: Part II will be posted in the short story forum once completed. Thanks for the read.

[AMETHYST]

Hi Tim,

First, let me express how much I think the subject is powerful. There is descriptives used that are both fresh and unique, painting us a full-well drawn image of the man in our mind's eye. I also felt that midpoint in the poem and through to the ending, is most powerful-ending on a very critical image. I cannot express how much I applaud the ending and the build up toward it.

Of course the suggestions and comments to follow are merely my own opinions and I do hope something I offer help in someway, as I think this has the potential to be a memorable poem that creates an affect of the reader and their insights to our elderly, who are left homeless and are not taken care of ... and yet, who find their own way of making something from nothing.

I felt the first few stanzas need some weeding out and perhaps some twisting of images to strengthen the descriptions you've drawn.

Some further thoughts and suggestions to follow... Good luck with this, it is a meaningful poem.

Best regards, Liz

He pushes a grocery cart full of salvaged treasures
along alleyways, parking lots
to each dumpster

Of course this is just my thoughts. But I always advise and attempt in my own poetry that the first stanza be as strong as it can, to provide the hook for the reader. To make them want to go forward. The scene is a great point to introduce the reader to the man and the ideals of his salvaged treasures, which in my mind, connect the ending. Some alternative examples to heighten the scene for the introduction could be:

He pushes a grocery cart
full of salvaged treasures
along the alleyways, through vacated
parking lots, then delves
the dumpsters.

(or delves every dumpster.)

I suggest the word 'delves' as I thought the meaning is connective to the 'treasure hunter'


delve (dlv) Pronunciation Key
v. delved, delv·ing, delves
v. intr.
1. To search deeply and laboriously: delved into the court records.
2. To dig the ground, as with a spade.
3. Archaic. to dig; excavate.



Another Suggestion might be:

He pushes a shopping cart filled
with salvaged treasures
behind closed buildings, along alleyways
and through dark parking lots;
delves packed dumpsters.



where shaky hands, like those front wheels
of his cart, stop
in preparation for the next dive.

I would suggest omitting 'cart' here in S2, L2. As the reader already associates the wheels to the cart in S1. Perhaps some onomatopoeic words would bring this to life as well.

shaky hands assimulate
clanking front wheels,
against cracked concrete, stops
in preparation for his next dive.

The word delve partners nicely with dive here in S2. Instead of clanking, there is always clinking to include our auditory senses. :)


Wheezing atop a rusted step ladder,
rheumatic fingers claw
sun-burnt kelp hair, rich with ashy dander.

Although 'wheezing' isn't a bad image here. I can clearly see the old man, standing on the top step wheezing. The suggestion to change 'wheezing' is for an opportunity to add sound and rhyme within the lines which enhance the image and makes the read more pleasant.

With raspy respiration, atop
a rusted step ladder,
rheumatic fingers claw
sun-burnt kelp hair, rich with ashy dander,



Folding over, he stretches
an anchor tattoed arm once strong enough
to hold a first born son named “Skip”.

This, IMO, was weak. I understand the information you are attempting to give your reader, something to show this man had a life, was a younger, stronger and vibrant... He lived, loved and was useful back in his day. It shows he had family, which enhances the sense of loneliness that is assumed by this reader. I felt however, the idea of saying he was once strong enough to hold a child. I would think that even though he might be elderly, and untaken care of and perhaps malnurished, he would still be able to hold a child.

Perhaps...
He stretches over,
revealing an anchor tattoed arm
that once held his first born son, "Skip".

I suggest omitting 'folding' I really dont think that a step by step is necessary for the reader to get a full image of him sorting through the dumpster.

Eyes,
shrunken black flies in late summer,
fluttering erratically – searching,

This stanza, felt a bit confusing for me. Were his eyes like shrunken black flies? Were his eyes harassed by black flies that are in the dumpster? ... It is an awkward image that might need some further thought. I would suggest consider omitting the stanza, as it doesn't provide anything of relevant to the act of the man. I do think the flies in late summer can add further information for the reader to entice some imagining of humid nights, flies being swatted from his face as they come up from the interior of the dumpster, flittering near his eyes, as sweat drips and his sweet-sweat draws them nearer... I will think further on this stanza and come back to it.



while sterile, desert air
carefully dry-ages his already jerky skin
into fleshy strips, subdues

Suggest omitting 'already' before jerky skin. It seems that if he were painted as a younger man, then I would think it might add something to enlighten the reader that he is aging before his time. Perhaps...

while sterile desert air
carefully dry-ages his jerky skin
into fleshy strips; subdues


stubborn breath from sand blasted lips
mumbling out of fluid lungs,
preserved like canned fruit since

I am wondering if 'stubborn' is the most fitting word here. Are you going for a hard to breathe image as if he is gasping for breath, or is the smell of his breath harsh and rancid. Is it the sand blasted lips that cause this stubborn breath or is it that this breath is coming from within sand blasted lips. I love the image of sand blasted lips. It is a very vivid image of dryed, chapped broken lips that are often seen on dehydrated, weather worn faces such as the homeless.

If you chose to reconsider this stanza, or the word 'stubborn' perhaps you might consider 'rancid breath from between sand blasted lips, (the sounds unite between 'rancid/sand' In L2, another consideration would be Is he really mumbling out of fluid lungs? Would this be to show he is talking to himself, too low to hear what he is saying, but loud enough that the rattle of his raspy water filled lungs are heard? ... This is strong image that would need just a little bit of working it out.


he was an orphan. Ancient and candid
this wind untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,

Good images. Strong information that links further life experiences to the man, as the reader can stir sympathies and alliances with the man. I liked this picture and what it reveals. Only suggestion would be a comma after 'this wind' in L2.


became his only surviving companion.
He champions a dying art,
voodoo

Perhaps omit 'became' This is where I think the poem and the movement picks up...

with his walking stick-
scrutinizing milk jugs and dissecting fish bones,
like entrails who’ve relinquished their

L3, perhaps too weak of a line break. I would suggest ending at relinquished and move 'their' to the beginning of the next stanza. to connect them.


future to rats and squirrels-
looking for relics of previous lives:
favorite sweaters, solitary earrings

Great stanza. The way the narrator works through from the expected to the unexpected. The treasures... Perhaps instead of 'looking' you might consider
exploring forage and relics of previous lives:
a favorite sweater, solitary earrings


I would also suggest bringing up L1 from the next stanza and attach it to this stanza.

or pocket watches with busted springs.
Each odd trinket
hooks his unusual attention; he collects


I would suggest beginning this stanza with

Each odd trinket
hooks his unusual attention; he collects
and assigns a proper history, befitting
a seasoned treasure hunter
like himself.

I combined the final two stanzas, of course this is a only an example.
But this ending is extremely profound and powerful. It, in itself, can be a stand alone poem, with the slight addition to the beginning. Great visuals and meanings. The content is vividly descriptive.



and assigns a proper history, befitting
a seasoned treasure hunter
like himself.

Tim, I know it looks like a lot of suggestions, but please remember it is only my thoughts and opinions and please use anything that might be inline with your intent and lose or discard anything that doesn't fit your meaning.

Best Wishes, Liz

PS I will be keeping my eyes on the growth of this, it is a strong poem... with GREAT HEIGHTS of POTENTIAL.