Hi Arthur,
I've been enjoying reading through this poem.
This is an interesting longish poem - or is it a few short poems? I sort of 
feel there's sometimes big jumps - like I'm striding, rarely teetering, from 
stepping stone to stepping stone; and it's not taking me back to where it's 
starting - with you in bed - I seem to be being taken somewhere altogether 
else.
And I'm calling each stanza a stepping stone because of their weight, their 
solidness. And now, playing with my own language a little, I'm wondering if 
you couldn't make the images you employ become more like supports so we move 
across each image - so the whole poem becomes like a bridge... I guess (I'm 
also using things we need to travel with because that's what you give me at 
the start of a poem: a car on a journey. I think that's a canny metaphor for 
what the poem's doing myself - light-and-travel & time establishing 
themselves as keys in the first stanza).
Anyway I'll give my own not-so-well-thought-out illustrations of what I 
mean:
1st stanza (OK) - you've set the scene!
2nd stanza - starts with an "and" - "and I hear the..." etc.
The 3rd. stanza (if it's the hand that's like a stone plinth?) may need you 
to delete the full stop at the end of stanza two and "maybe" begin the staza 
with "like a stone plinth...". It your illustration is about something 
different then replace the "It" word that starts the stanza with something 
more specific.
I'm thinking of each stanza as separate from the previous one - but I'm 
trying to find some sort of link.
If, however, you feel that each stanza has to be distinct, separable, 
self-contained, then a link can be found with the opening words you use. (I 
once had a poem working in a similar relfective tone where I used the device 
"Life is either... Or.... (and similar phrases) that allowed the reader to 
see that what could be seen as disconnected images where linked by the 
word-patterns of how they were introduced into the poem. That's a long 
explanation for saying, each stanza might begin with "and" or "but" or 
"when" or "then" or whatever. Or you might use some other form of patterning 
the poem to assure the reader as they move through the poem: I guess poems 
need word patterns that link things as well as word patterns that say 
things... - ... and the words that say/repeat things a few times in the poem 
are about light (car-headlights/sun/moon, and about time (clocks, 
sundials...).
Others have pointed out where some particular words seem to get in the way 
of what the poem's saying - and there's no need to repeat such advice. I 
sense it needs to keep itself quiet, easy paced, let the images flow out, 
not keep them crammed and squashed into phrases.
Wow, this feels like a complicated response!
Bob



>From: arthur seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: A poem in search of a title.
>Date: Wed, 25 Jun 2003 06:55:19 +0100
>
>This is an older piece considerably reworked.
>
>A poem in search of a title.
>
>A car passes down the wet road;
>light slides over my curtains.
>I watch the arrow fly across my room,
>then night resumes. The glow of numbers
>at my side, tells the long dark down to day.
>
>Fitful, I hear the soft insistence of my heart
>and tides of breath beat out their span,
>per second, per second.
>I shake my hand, deadened by my body’s weight,
>to feel the loosed blood thrill again.
>
>Its stone plinth, fast rooted,
>gnomon aligned to the earth’s tilt,
>the bronze dial turns towards the sun,
>measures and enumerates its unclouded passage,
>shadows the hours, the pulse of seasons- years.
>
>Flies butt and buzz,
>eyes flash, fail and dim,
>birds flit, clouds drift, sands shift,
>leaves flicker, grasses sway, seas lap
>and rivers run under the apparent journeys of the sun.
>
>A sere leaf taps my shoulder,
>a bird-abandoned bough quivers,
>Leaf- and petal-fall, moon in thrall,
>the wind’s melody stroked from swung chimes,
>all evaluate the same equations.
>
>When all I am is stilled,
>senses nullified, pitched into silence,
>I will no longer know these soft flickers,
>flights of time, nor mind the chiding of decay
>that moulders me to other lives.

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