Just to put in my tuppence worth in on the poem itself, it is
obviously worth saying both personally and as literature. Just count
the responses: any poem that does that has to have something going for
it. (The corollary is not always true, I hasten to add.)
My advice would be to shorten it - tighten it up, not by changing the
syntactical structure of it so much as taking out the obvious and the
always-said about this. The great lurker Glen Phillips always asked
his students to cut by 10%, but I would go for much more - maybe 20%.
(Hey, but keep the original on file ... just as a safety net. I find I
never need it because a shorter, more focused poem is always better
than a loose-lipped rambler, but simply the act of keeping the draft
makes you more daring in the editing.)
I'll shut up now and go to work.
Andrew
On 03/11/06, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> I tend to agree with the others about this Heather. It's powerful, but
> almost a story. And I cant really think of a way to push the rhythm any
> harder, although that's what I would want from it.
>
> I'm not sure that trying to undermine grammatical structure a bit would
> do that, though it's what I would be tempted to try...
>
> Doug
> On 2-Nov-06, at 3:38 AM, Heather Taylor wrote:
>
> > This is a longer one but I wanted to share, get some feedback, etc.
> > Tried
> > to send it last night but it didn't go through...
> >
> >
> > It was absent in my house:
> > red wine, white, baileys, whiskey, six packs.
> > No one had beer at the end of a hot summer work week
> > or snuck something in their coffee mid-afternoon.
> >
> > My grandpa was a mean drunk way before I met him,
> > before he became the man who slipped me
> > fivers for candy, played cards late into the night,
> > sat me on his lap to show me how the world worked
> >
> > as he dieted on his new habits of coffee and cigarettes
> > and KFC family bucket meals - the ones we expected
> > every time he came round to visit, while my mom hovered,
> > making peace by fetching and cleaning and keeping quiet.
> >
> > Before me, my grandpa was best at blame, the strong
> > silent type that didn't talk about his army demotion,
> > or why my Grandma couldn't speak "Goddamn German
> > in front of his Goddamn children," or why he slipped
> >
> > vodka into his morning coffees and continued slipping
> > until the day was done and at least one of his kids
> > had a bloody nose and at least one of his kids was in a closet
> > or under the bed so he wouldn't find them.
> >
> > So alcohol didn't exist in our family beyond that shadow
> > of a past we're not never ever supposed to talk about.
> > Our breed don't talk about things.
> > Our breed knows how to keep things quiet.
> >
> > But still, I was taught what alcoholics looked like:
> > red veins mapping their way across noses, the meek man
> > shouting and fighting with strangers, the drinking of real
> > vanilla essence or lysterine when the shops shut
> >
> > and you couldn't get a hit. These people were cartoon
> > characters in bad America sitcoms, the ones that taught
> > you an ABC after school lesson so you didn't fall
> > down that path. It was no one I knew.
> >
> > The retired teacher who buys 2 litres of White Lighting each morning,
> > my uncles that finish the 2-6s of JD at every party, funeral and
> > wedding,
> > the friend who almost broke my arm over concert tickets -
> > They weren't alcoholics. Just another set of normal people.
> >
> > But when you're lying naked in a bed in a hotel room with strangers,
> > and your doctor says you're killing yourself, and your friends
> > marvel that you make it through the day after the night before,
> > and your best mates are wearing grooves in bar stools - is that enough.
> >
> > My Grandpa was a mean drunk. He drank to cope.
> > My friend to cope, my uncle to cope, me to cope.
> > And forget. And forget. And forget. Until we all
> > forgot and drank another. A sweet release down the throat.
> >
> > My Grandpa was a mean drunk. He drank to cope.
> > But we don't talk about that anymore.
> >
> >
> Douglas Barbour
> 11655 - 72 Avenue NW
> Edmonton Ab T6G 0B9
> (780) 436 3320
> http://www.ualberta.ca/~dbarbour/
>
> Latest book: Continuations (with Sheila E Murphy)
> http://www.uap.ualberta.ca/UAP.asp?LID=41&bookID=664
>
> Where philosophy stops, poetry is impelled to begin. He was
> a man, far away from home, biting his nails at destiny.
>
> Susan Howe
>
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.bam.com.au/andrew
|