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.

[AMETHYST]

Hi Brenda,

I spent a while rereading this several times and making notes to return with. I will have to agree that this would do quite well as a Series of poems working its way to the final stanza.

If you don't mind, I would like to show a few edit suggestions as examples - What I felt this needs most though is weeding out of unnecessary or weak areas.

I hope something I leave helps you find your way with this. As I mentioned there is a lot of strong lines and images and the idea is a good one, I just feel it needs developing. :)

Hugs, Liz ...

Repatriation (not a draft-an alternative concept)

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

This is great opening. The image is interesting and serves a hook and follow through for the readers curiosity. Some weeding out suggestions would be omitting 'the' in L1 - and perhaps

Snow flakes fall
on cemetery mourners; like matchsticks
they stand, dipped-white.



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

Another word for slice, or perhaps they don't slice the air but disrupt the saddened mood dressed in silence, then gun shots cut through the silence. L2/3 are a little wordy... perhaps ...

A man, clothed in grey mourning
attire ... tenses, relaxes -
twenty-one gun shots
slice the silence.

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.

The idea of a postage sized flag draping a coffin seems a little difficult to picture. There seems to be some trips here as well, and L5 sounds like the B-52 bomber lost but then found his life, as if he misplaced it. L6, who's family? The B-52 bombers family? I think if you are going to reference to 'my ...' indicating the 'narrator' perhaps introduce him/her in the first stanza.

I watch snow flakes fall
over cemetary mourners,
like matchsticks dipped-white.

An example of possible suggestion here might be:

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.

A flag drapes a coffin, Tin Soldiers
stand at attention; military blues against a gray sky-
within the casket, are bones
of a B-52 bomber, once lost and now found,
flesh and cells sloughed
off in a Vietnamese rice field.
My family, on the six o'clock news.

For now, I must go get ready for work but I will return later on with further comments on the remainder of the poem.

Hugs, Liz