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[Guest_Ryan_*]

Revision and title change

The Day After

the floor is inkblotted--
lost a foot war

kindle-holes I suppose

i see red
a 60's International tractor

hands turn
the wheel to pull
a trailer of hardwood
over stumps and ruts,

blinked awake
with the smell of moss
and gas

i have a last look
at the floor that was his

to leave memory
in dust






This is the first draft, I recently wrote a revision for this and have posted that underneath..



the pill yellow vinyl floor,
is inkblotted with the holes
left from workboots and forgotten brooms

Kindle-holes I suppose--
ones that invoke trance-like thoughts
of a red 1960's International tractor,

me at the wheel, pulling a trailer of hard-wood
over stumps, and muddy ruts on a floor of moss
trying to remember which gear was one shift down

I ask myself: "Now tell me what you see"
like a Freudian arm-chair Phd.,
I blink and wake

from my stupor to finish cleaning
the old apartment where he lived
with his memories of her

light reflects in my dusty outline as I sit
on the backless, forest coloured couch
where I spent much of my childhood

watching steroid manufactured physiques,
the sport/ballet/soap of the WWF
with him and his old friend with the growth on his lip:

he would cover it with his hand out of shame.
(During the surgery doctors took a piece
of his ass and sewed it to his mouth)

and his old friend would stomp, scream, and clap
at the purple-pampered wrestler getting thumbed
in the pupil, as if he had just witnessed a sermon

He used to give me quarters and he had a benji-dog,
years later I heard he burned to death in his old farmhouse
while sleeping.

My grandfather always said the man was a hard worker
but he wasn't going write a thesis on phenomenology
or falling a tree.

In the living room I scanned the old faux-leather
lazyboy with my palm, reading the plastic tears
and indented buttons

reminds me of the warmth of his big belly
where I used to lay, secure

I look in the closet to find leather dipped elbows
on checkered sports coats, and 30's style hats:
no plaid jackets found musting

I wonder what made her leave him,
they were a golden anniverseray couple?
A discard of thought returns

me to the wake.



REVISION 1

the pill yellow vinyl floor
is inkblotted with holes
left from workboots and forgotten brooms

Kindle-holes I suppose--
ones that invoke trance-like thoughts
of a red 1960's International tractor

at the wheel I pull a trailer of hard-wood
over stumps and muddy ruts on a floor of moss

which gear is one shift down?

I ask myself "Now tell me what you see"
like a Freudian arm-chair Phd
I blink and wake

from my stupor to finish cleaning
the old apartment where he lived
with his memories of her

light reflects in my dusty outline as I sit
on the backless, forest coloured couch
and I recall

watching steroid manufactured physiques
the sport/ballet/soap of the WWF
with him and old Cyril with the growth on his lip:

Cyril would cover it with his hand because of shame.
(During the surgery doctors took a piece
of his ass and sewed it to his mouth)

and his old friend would stomp, scream, and clap
at the purple-pampered wrestler getting thumbed
in the pupil as if he had just witnessed a sermon

My grandfather always said the man was a hard worker
but he wasn't going to write a thesis on phenomenology
or falling a tree

he gives me quarters
and had a benji-dog

he doesn't know he'll burn to death
in a lonely farmhouse

In the living room I scan the old faux-leather
lazyboy with my palm reading the plastic tears
and indented buttons

reminds me of the warmth of his big belly
where I used to lay, secure

I look in the closet to find leather dipped elbows
on checkered sports coats, and 30's style hats
no plaid jackets found musting

I wonder what made her leave him
they were a golden anniverseray couple?
A discard of thought returns

me to the wake

[Eisa]

Hi Ryan

Welcome again to MM -- it's good to read your work. I seem to have overlooked this for a while -- I do apologise --- and wow! You've already done 2 revisions. I presume the revisionat the top is your latest one.

I do prefer the conciseness of you revision as your original was rather prose-like and a bit long. However, the latest revision is not so easy to understand. Perhaps it's me. There are some images from the original which I miss, for instance

reminds me of the warmth of his big belly
where I used to lay, secure

paints such a vivid picture of remembrance and love.

I look in the closet to find leather dipped elbows
on checkered sports coats, and 30's style hats

again paints a very clear image.


The Day After

the floor is inkblotted--
lost a foot war

kindle-holes I suppose

i see red
a 60's International tractor

hands turn
the wheel to pull
a trailer of hardwood
over stumps and ruts,

blinked awake
with the smell of moss
and gas

i have a last look
at the floor that was his

to leave memory
in dust


I do like the ending -- memories left in the dust. I feel that perhaps a version somewhere between the long prose-like one and this very concise one, where you pick out the most interesting memories for the reader might be best.

I hope my thoughts have given you something to think over. I hope someone else will pass on some ideas too. Good luck witht his one.

Snow

[Guest_Kathy_*]

Ryan, it gets better as it progresses, I think. At present its very mixed-up, as if you don't know where to start, but I think you're working it out.

The day after. The wake. Yes, I see.

Your beginnings are all vague. Interesting, but I couldn't get a grasp of what was happening. It went on for too long, so I almost gave up.

For me, this man takes shape as you relax, further down the page. It's much more natural then, and I get some gritty details:



light reflects in my dusty outline as I sit
on the backless, forest coloured couch
where I spent much of my childhood

watching steroid manufactured physiques,
the sport/ballet/soap of the WWF
with him and his old friend with the growth on his lip:

he would cover it with his hand out of shame.
(During the surgery doctors took a piece
of his ass and sewed it to his mouth)

and his old friend would stomp, scream, and clap
at the purple-pampered wrestler getting thumbed
in the pupil, as if he had just witnessed a sermon

He used to give me quarters and he had a benji-dog,
years later I heard he burned to death in his old farmhouse
while sleeping.

My grandfather always said the man was a hard worker
but he wasn't going write a thesis on phenomenology
or falling a tree.

In the living room I scanned the old faux-leather
lazyboy with my palm, reading the plastic tears
and indented buttons

reminds me of the warmth of his big belly
where I used to lay, secure

I look in the closet to find leather dipped elbows
on checkered sports coats, and 30's style hats:
no plaid jackets found musting

I wonder what made her leave him,
they were a golden anniverseray couple?
A discard of thought returns

me to the wake.

Yes, I prefer the first one. And actually, this is all I need. The other bits, (kindle-holes and such,) seem insubstantial to me. Though I'm sure they are significant memories for you, they are encoded and so not accessable to your readers. I think they are scaffolding; the struts on which you began to build your poem, and they can go. Perhaps they are part of another one.

So. Just one person's perceptions, of couse, pal. I see your talent, Ryan.

[Guest_Kathy_*]

Bring this bit into present tense:

In the living room I scanned the old faux-leather
lazyboy with my palm, reading the plastic tears
and indented buttons


For me this in-the- moment reverie contrasts effectively in present/past tense.

[Guest_Ryan_*]

Hello all,

I appreciate the feedback. I have posted a revision. I'm not sure it hits the mark of what you were suggesting. It's still short, and much is still left out. In fact it is almost a completely different poem.

a 60's International tractor
blushes alive

hands wring
the wheel-corpse to drag
a trailer of hardwood
over stumps and ruts,

blinked awake
with the smell of moss
and gas

i have a last look around
for him in the apartment

where he died