Repatrition, A Problem Poem Options

[bbnixon]

Hi All,

I am afraid I am bringing my problem poem over here, it is one I have revised more times than I can count and well I still don't like it. Originial (a mourner a snowglobe....)) concept was to to tell the story from different viewpoints...and I used the "snowglobe" and the "shake of the snowglobe" to switch scenes...a concept I have been pretty vested in...so I continued to hit my head on the brick wall...but still not working....so in the last version I got rid of the snowglobe..and the shake and just told the story...not sure if it working...or if I lost somathing in the translation..

The funeral itself is based on real and imagined events. The military elements and the history are from the story of my uncle..who was recently repatriated...the winter scene, the setting....a blend of imagination and a conglomeration of several funeral.....

I have placed both versions here...I am curious-a poll..which version a persons prefers...and for what ever version is preferred..honest crit would be greatly appreciated.

I am vested in this poem...because of its content...because of my family...I am however bullet proof at this time...I want it to be right....so feel free to rip it up. if that is what it needs.....


:) brenda

Repatriation (not a draft-an alternative concept)

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

Gun shots slice the air,
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o'clock news.


My cousin sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years,I brought him home.

My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body




A scene in a snow globe, a funeral, a mourner suspended in time



I hold the snow globe to my ear
like a shell from the sea
Notes of amazing grace dance in my ear.

Shake

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

Gun shots slice the air,
threaten the glass in my hand.
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o’clock news.

Shake

My cousin, a middle aged man,
sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years, he is home.

My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Shake

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body.

[JaxMyth]

Hi Brenda some comments in line:

Repatriation (not a draft-an alternative concept)

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

The matchsticks that I am used to are made from poplar and are already white.

Gun shots slice the air,
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Too prosaic, perhaps something like 'A grey man in a grey suit...' Maybe 'releases' rather than 'relaxes'

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
I am more used to 'stand to attention' this may be a regional thing.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
Maybe a better modifier than 'postage'.
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh [and cells] sloughed off in a Vietnamese [rice field](paddy).
A B-52 [bomber] lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family('s) on the six o'clock news.


My cousin sits in the front row.
He was still a boy[, not quite a man]
when his father went down.
I remember [the boy without a father] (him being)
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surrogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg, hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the [trianlge] (triangle)
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years,I brought him home.

My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
[thier] (their) fathers.Life(')s sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body


Brenda I am sorry I have run out of time. I see your major problem being that this far too prosaic. Remove all line breaks and cast this as prose the try to rework the prose as a poem it my get you out of your rut.

Use or lose,

Regards,

Jax



A scene in a snow globe, a funeral, a mourner suspended in time



I hold the snow globe to my ear
like a shell from the sea
Notes of amazing grace dance in my ear.

Shake

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

Gun shots slice the air,
threaten the glass in my hand.
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o’clock news.

Shake

My cousin, a middle aged man,
sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years, he is home.

My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Shake

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body.