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.

[duetsdove]

[quote name='azurepoetry' date='Aug 30 06, 11:35 ' post='82210']
Dreams of the Diptera
Part I: "The Old Diver" --First Revision
Much thanks to Liz and Ren, and everyone else who has pushed me on.

Hey Tim. . .I'm back. . .but I don't know how popular I will be. lolol I guess it's a bit difficult to crit this well. . .not knowing how your plan for the entire piece is. . .whether this was planned as a poem to "tease" the rest of the story. . .or if it needs to be informative enough because it is part of the actual story. ..am I making sense? In any event. . .simply from reading what I have here in front of me. . .I'd say you may have gone a bit overboard on the revision. . .and, yet, even in that. . .left so many pieces to question. Now, having said that if this is a poetic work. . .to "tease" the story. . .then the pieces left in question may be necessary. ..so with that said. . .onward.


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

Don't think you need the salvaged treasures in this stanza. . .the grocery carts the homeless push. ..are their treasures. . .for the most part. . .we know that. . .and you mention it at the end. . .where it seems to fit in a bit better. Reconnoiters. . .not a word that fits well poetically. . .unless you wish to focus more on the prosaic aspect. . .and I'm not certain it's that necessary to focus on his past Navy life, which is alluded to in the title right off the bat. . .and I'm still not convinced that, in this work, his past life as a Navy person seems to be that much of a focus. . .Iknow I'm being nit-picky. . .and I'm pushing. . .but I've got a feel that you've no problem with that. *soft smile* Rings. . .are not on our hands. . .they are on our fingers.

He pushes a grocery cart. Salvaged
silver rings on his fingers resound
the clank of misaligned front wheels,
while his mind masters the mission

through the watery dark of a night
behind closed stores, through empty lots
to the next dumpster,
where he stops and labors
over choices,
the perfect tools

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

You can make this more poetic by implementing word choices that are tonal. . .a shake of assonance. .a sprinkle of alliteration. Images that draw in the Navy. . .without the heavy sounding words that tend to lack poetic painting. ..i.e. watery dark of night. . .enjambment also adds some poetics. . .and serves duality quite nicely at times. . .as in the first line of the work. . .that I played with. The grocery cart is salvaged. ..or you could use pilfered, too, as that would work well. . .maybe even better. .and the rings on his fingers are either salvaged or pilfered as well.

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

Again. . .modifiers. . .is the walking stick rheumatic or his fingers?

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

Love the use of dreaklocks. ..that gives us a very, very good picture. . .in fact. . .I think you could eliminate the kelp line completely.

He claws aside sun-burnt dreadlocks,
rich with dander,
the better for his eyes --

like shrunken black flies in late summer --
to flutter and drop erratically
over the top of tamped garbage.

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,

A dusty wind, foreign to the salty spray
his once supple skin withstood,
continues to dry-age sun-leathered skin,
subduing the stubborn breath
that continues to break
from sand-blasted lips

Ummm. . .let me see. . .maybe my "playing" is explanation enough. ..water references abound. . .youth vs. age. . .ocean vs. desert. . .which, imo, is a very good place to put this gentleman metaphorically. . .at this point in his life.

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

Ok. . .it's the wind right that is his surviving constant? That sort of gets lost in the wording. . .

untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,
the wind that has become
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,

I love ths stanza. . .I've no idea how that fits in with his being a Navy man. . .or why we lost the tattoos. . .but I love this stanza. . .I'll be looking for those ghosts in part two. . .that's for sure.

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.

I'd delete "for" in L1 above.

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

Still not overly thrilled with the last line here. Something about befitting isn't sitting quite right. . .and I'm not convinced that you need the word unusual. . .

Each odd trinket hooks his attention,
he collects and assigns, in his mind,
a proper history,
seasoned through the hunt
for treasure.

Alrighty then. . .are you still speaking with me? *soft smile* I know I'm way off on what you are intending with that last stanza. . .can't quite get a feel on what you do intend with it. . .all of this is, of course, take or toss. . .

Just a coupla cents,
~Ren~