Hi Matt.
The first thing that strikes me is the uniformity of form here. Quatrains
neatly stacked without too much overlap of lines.
Then when I read it I notice the strange line breaks and it seems almost
that you have cut them to size and that size is your sole criteria  for
establishing line length and breaks. Further the language, where it is
precise enough and well written, is prosaic for the most part and the poetry
does not kick in until just inside the penultimate strophe. Third strophe
you have a sentence beginning with 'and' which is a conjunction and should
conjoin, it is in any case extraneous both in sense and rhythm.
Am I right in detecting hints at Beowulf, or Bede, in the last strophe, or
is my memory playing me false. It does sometimes.
These comments seem wholly negative Matt and I regret that but might I point
you towards thinking that the first part could well stand as prose in its
own right and no need to make it look like poetry, which I think you have
either consciously or subconsciously done and then the last part towards a
poetic form of some kind. I am playing with this mixture of prose and poetry
at the moment and I do it to avoid being accused of being too telly. The
process does guide me, and the reader too, I hope, towards that
crystallization of words that is poetry.. There is no reason that the two,
prose and poetry, should be kept apart. Just some thoughts that I hope might
be helpful. Regards Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Merritt, Matt - Leic. Mercury" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Monday, January 05, 2004 2:31 PM
Subject: New sub: Redwings


> Hi,
>
> First thing I've posted in ages - first thing I've finished, for that
> matter! I think it's still pretty raw though, and could do with some
> knocking about.
>
> Regards,
> Matt
>
>
>
> Redwings
>
> Useful, at least, to learn the limitations
> of patio heaters in October, and how
> bare belly-buttons and cold shoulders
> have had their day. It's clear from the
>
> shimmer of the early stars that the salad
> and the ice-cream will go the same way,
> and soon we are gathering round the
> only heat like pickets in the Seventies.
>
> And then we notice the thin, hissing calls
> overhead, keeping the rest of their night
> flight from Norway close, tight. Sounds like
> seep, someone says, but we're offered see-iz
>
> by the Readers' Digest guide. If we were
> poets, we might be tempted to claim they're
> the sound of approaching winter on the wing,
> but, of course, no-one says a thing. We should
>
> be thinking of a sparrow's swift, flickering
> flight past thegn and ceorl, through the warm,
> wide, firelit hall. We don't though, and just feel the
> dark ages, seep-seep-seeping into our souls.