You’re right, Max. I guess a lot of the ‘is’ constructions felt a bit that way to me?
Doug
On Jul 30, 2015, at 10:28 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> thanks, Sheila, Bill, and Doug.
>
> The opening is a problem and - um, the passives?
> I see one at ‘when it’s found’…
> something else that makes for dimness, somehow…?
>
> Max
>
> On Jul 30, 2015, at 8:59, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
>> Ah, interesting memory ride, Max & I rode along. I think Sheila is asking if you need the first two & a half lines, really: maybe just begin in media res, so to speak. Let it happen then that final stanza feels even more pertinent.
>>
>> I see the ‘restraint’ Bill points to, but wonder if all the passive )to be) constructions are necessary. The 3rd person for self works, but it is a construct felt in the poem.
>>
>> Doug
>> On Jul 29, 2015, at 5:09 PM, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>>
>>> A tour-de-force, Max, needing I think that opening stanza, Sheila, to set up expectations and more. At poem's end, the image which first sprung to mind was the 'morning play/of light on plain walls', so evocative, and providing such a contrast with cluttered walls everywhere these days. 'Stiff windows' is a good detail too, Max. Windows were once built to enclose views but have a look on their own. I am presuming it doesn't just mean windows that jam and are hard to raise. Glimpses of family life rendered with restraint. 'Distant Rush' captures train sound perfectly and 'rinsing road-dust from feet' is lovely. My only reservation is the ending. I'd leave off the last stanza, even perhaps ending with 'Dawn their destination' if it could be wangled.
>>>
>>> Bill
>>>
>>>> On 30 Jul 2015, at 3:15 am, Sheila Murphy <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>>>>
>>>> Max, this is wonderful. I cannot help the question:
>>>>
>>>> Could the first stanza go? The piece is stunning, and I think it works
>>>> better without that. Just a hunch.
>>>>
>>>> Sheila
>>>>
>>>>> On Wed, Jul 29, 2015 at 9:11 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>>>>>
>>>>> Knowing His Places
>>>>>
>>>>> Looking back, he sees
>>>>> places worth the knowing -
>>>>> those early ones - waking
>>>>> to the morning play
>>>>> of light on plain walls,
>>>>>
>>>>> soft green leaves framed
>>>>> by stiff windows
>>>>> with birds in, birds
>>>>> on the lawn, birds
>>>>> with worms; first stirrings.
>>>>>
>>>>> Death is everyday.
>>>>> Bobby calves no-one mentions
>>>>> wait by the roadside.
>>>>> In the butcher shop
>>>>> hang lamb, veal, pork.
>>>>>
>>>>> Clouds pass over. Some days
>>>>> the mountain’s in place,
>>>>> snow the sun shines on;
>>>>> others, it's in hiding.
>>>>> Dad comes home from work.
>>>>>
>>>>> ‘Good evening, father,
>>>>> here are your slippers.’
>>>>> Food is in the kitchen
>>>>> with Mum and sister.
>>>>> ‘Look how the boy grows.’
>>>>>
>>>>> Lightning splits a tree.
>>>>> Somewhere a war ends,
>>>>> elsewhere another.
>>>>> Father has a new job,
>>>>> a new place for him
>>>>>
>>>>> to move to, find some place
>>>>> to live. When it’s found,
>>>>> he’ll send for family
>>>>> waiting in a country
>>>>> place, marking time.
>>>>>
>>>>> Removed to that place
>>>>> two days’ journey off,
>>>>> son sees the same and
>>>>> more - a river all summer
>>>>> runs under its bridge
>>>>>
>>>>> through shallows; rinsing
>>>>> road-dust from feet,
>>>>> they paddle in cool wet;
>>>>> slow across blue sky
>>>>> sun on their shoulders
>>>>>
>>>>> is red hot reddening.
>>>>> Mum has pink lotion.
>>>>> The distant rush
>>>>> of a train crosses
>>>>> somewhere downstream.
>>>>>
>>>>> Walking back is through
>>>>> a field of tall maize,
>>>>> a place in itself,
>>>>> sweet corn ripening
>>>>> in green wrapping.
>>>>>
>>>>> Beyond is the sea.
>>>>> Inland are bare hills.
>>>>> In autumn, they burn.
>>>>> Winter brings frosts,
>>>>> ice in the gutters.
>>>>>
>>>>> What is spring? life returns
>>>>> to tall green poplars.
>>>>> School: there’s your place,
>>>>> sit still, sing, count,
>>>>> draw, write, shush. Play.
>>>>>
>>>>> Shun that smelly place.
>>>>> Walking home, hold hands.
>>>>> Dad’s small car will be here soon
>>>>> to take them all to Wellington.
>>>>> His piano fits its new place.
>>>>>
>>>>> Other schools, houses, streets,
>>>>> places to get to know.
>>>>> Big trains: steam locomotives,
>>>>> overnight trips, pillows
>>>>> one shilling; dull red carriages.
>>>>>
>>>>> Settle to sleep - through
>>>>> tunnel-smoke onto the viaduct
>>>>> high above some river.
>>>>> Dawn their destination.
>>>>> Settled now? placed?
>>>>>
>>>>> One day he’d travel
>>>>> alone changing
>>>>> old places known
>>>>> for the fresh unknown
>>>>> why not forever?
>>>>>
>>>>> [Taranaki and Hawkes Bay 1945-6]
>>>>> Seattle July 2015
>>>>
>>
>> Douglas Barbour
>> [log in to unmask]
>>
>> Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2 (UofAPress).
>> Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
>>
>> Done in by creation itself.
>>
>> I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
>> The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
>> We wrote the books. In whose dream, then are we dreaming?
>>
>> Robert Kroetsch.
Douglas Barbour
[log in to unmask]
Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2 (UofAPress).
Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
Done in by creation itself.
I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
We wrote the books. In whose dream, then are we dreaming?
Robert Kroetsch.
|