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,

Wow, you've done some excellent reshaping of the poems clarity and some minor changes really bring the scenes crisp and poignant both in imagery and meaning for me. I especially liked the opening stanza, and how it follows through on a full scene, moving the reader as a watch of the man going about his 'invisable' life.

Some further thoughts to follow... Nice reworking!

Best Wishes, Liz

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

I liked the change in making the rings on his fingers, clanking along with the clank of the wheels against the ground. It adds a great detail of both sound and visual descriptions. I also applaud the use of reconnoiters, bringing to mind a military like behavior, which most often can be interpretted as such from someone scouting out gems from garbage, always in fear of being moved along or have to defend his own find. Nice work on the opening stanza.


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

Did you mean 'equiptment"? I am thinking a typo in L3. The line itself, 'the right equiptment' feels weak to my ear. it doesn't seem to generate the fullness of what the narrator intends. Is the right equiptment his shopping cart, the dumpster and what he needs to step into it, I was lest sort confused about what it is referring to.

Again, I like the follow through working our way from the scenery of closed stores, to get the feel of vacated, empty area's through the now empty parking lots and approaching the dumpster. I would suggest...

and on to the next dumpster, stopping
to labor over the right equiptment


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

L3, is a bit awkward... it comes off as though his walking stick has rheumatic fingers...
Perhaps...

for another dive. Atop a step ladder, diligently
prodding the plastic lid up,
his rheumatic fingers clasped around his walking stick.



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

LOVE THIS STANZA. The detailed imagery, crisp and vibrant... that is fresh and unique. Bravo.

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

IMO, this stanza, doesn't really add anything for me and become too focused on the garbage, perhaps ... the first line, then bringing attention back to the man. Such as

he swats at shrunken black flies, late in summer,
flittering about his scruff-they drop
ontop the packed garbage piles.



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

Another good solid detailed stanza.! :)

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

Perhaps..
chapped lips, break apart; mumble
fluid from 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.

L1, omit 'the' before sprawling. To enhance the 'sprawling torpor'
I would also omit 'became his' ... and possibly leave it as:

his only constant survival companion.


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

Excellent.

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

Perhaps instead of 'into' might it be... 'to fleeing squirrels and rats."

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

Great listing of articles that are his treasures... that tell stories and bring to life connections to a life beyond his own.

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

EXCELLENT ENDING.

Over all, my thoughts are minor and just IMO. Please use or lose, either way, This has really been enhanced to show the details of a wanderong soul in the lost evenings of our world... Great work, Tim!

[azurepoetry]

Hi Amethyst/Liz,

Normally i find this visually confusing, but i am going to quote your work for reply/counterreply. Feeling a bit lazy tonight.

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

I liked the change in making the rings on his fingers, clanking along with the clank of the wheels against the ground. It adds a great detail of both sound and visual descriptions. I also applaud the use of reconnoiters, bringing to mind a military like behavior, which most often can be interpretted as such from someone scouting out gems from garbage, always in fear of being moved along or have to defend his own find. Nice work on the opening stanza.

I wasn't sure about 'reconnoiters', it ends the stanza so heavy, but gives so much in terms narrative, and then there is that very off-rhyme with treasures.

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

Did you mean 'equiptment"? I am thinking a typo in L3. The line itself, 'the right equiptment' feels weak to my ear. it doesn't seem to generate the fullness of what the narrator intends. Is the right equiptment his shopping cart, the dumpster and what he needs to step into it, I was lest sort confused about what it is referring to.
[b]Yeah, equipment, tools...stool, walking stick. Preparing, sorting through junk. Equipment may need to get replaced with something stronger. i just don't want to overwhelm this poem that seems to be teetering already.

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

L3, is a bit awkward... it comes off as though his walking stick has rheumatic fingers...
Perhaps...

Hmmmmm. i see. i'll think on that problem.

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

[b]LOVE THIS STANZA. The detailed imagery, crisp and vibrant... that is fresh and unique. Bravo.
Thanks go to Rene on this one.

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

IMO, this stanza, doesn't really add anything for me and become too focused on the garbage, perhaps ... the first line, then bringing attention back to the man.

Yeah, about that...this stanza is attempting many things at once. While this poem is primarily a character sketch, there is secondary action going through the piece. He opens arrives, he opens the lid, he scans the top from his ladder, he rummages with stick, he finds items and gives them value (as Gal out of Dixie aptly put it). This stanza is also describing his eyes as flies themselves, not filled with, yet it is worded to allude that there are flies around. i still wanted the direct comparison, not just scene development. It tags the diver to the title and a few other things....
So, while i get your want to change it to something that makes complete sense to me, it is not quite fitting the exaggerated comparison i seek from time-to-time. Consider it too much Plath in these early formative, poetic years.


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

Perhaps..
chapped lips, break apart; mumble
fluid from lungs preserved like canned fruit.
Ancient and candid, this wind,


Ooh, i don't know if i want 'chapped' right after 'sand-blasted', plus another modifier there is sketchy with two bold metphors to follow, to me it feels like i should pull back and let the reader bit the seemingly innocuous first line (no pun on bite and lip)

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

L1, omit 'the' before sprawling. To enhance the 'sprawling torpor'
I would also omit 'became his' ... and possibly leave it as:

his only constant survival companion.

Adding this to the list of "to be consider".


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

Perhaps instead of 'into' might it be... 'to fleeing squirrels and rats."

That's funny, i changed it from 'to' to 'into' right before posting. Consider it switched back.

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

EXCELLENT ENDING.
Thank you very much. B)

Again, thank you so much for your help Liz. i am sure you can see your handiwork in some of this. Some of it is Rene's questioning that caused me to rethink the clarity issue. i probably could have waited to post, but it wouldn't have come out with what i have now, and what i have is very close. i hope i can be of equal help in the future (i'll start with that artichoke dip).

~tim