|
 Menu
|
|
|
|
|
Social
|
|
|
|
|
Array
(
[sid] => 135535
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Daniel
[time] => 2007-06-25 20:46:16
[hometext] => A poem about love. I'm a little unsure about some of the images, so any critiques/advice would be appreciated and returned.
[bodytext] => Mounting the rolling hillside
after half an hour of brisk walking,
we arrive at the looming olive tree
with which we’d become unwillingly familiar.
We note the sun, approaching the zenith,
and begin to move the wood
that we cut and piled high
the day we first came back to this place.
Our work is brisk,
and our bottles of water unfulfilling,
as we pile dried grass and twigs
to build our ceremonial fire pit.
We scrub the iron cauldron clean,
add the wheat we milled last night,
some water, and some cracked salt
before lighting the fire.
As the water boils off to bake our bread,
we begin to prepare our meats –
A salmon caught in January,
encrusted, live, in salt,
And our pig, Eric, who just turned three.
Your mother straddles Eric, blade in hand,
careful not to scare him,
and pulls up and back powerfully,
dropping him in the olive tree’s tall shadow.
Meanwhile, I chisel the salmon
out of it’s salt cocoon,
and filet its rotten, shrunken belly,
discarding the innards with the blood-soaked salt.
Our kettle is removed as the bread finishes baking,
and we scrape the insides of the burning iron,
piling the unleavened crackers
next to the fish.
Then, we carve out three choice cuts
from Eric’s cooling, pink body,
skewer them,
and begin to roast them in the brightening fire.
Finally, an array of vegetables
are poured onto the ground and washed –
Potatoes, radishes, olives, figs,
thyme, endives, and black-eyed peas.
When the third star of the night comes out,
we dine, eating a fantastic feast
produced entirely by our hands and efforts,
unlike any available in our modern world.
We taste the countless hours spent gathering,
hunting, raising Eric, and, finally, cooking,
as we share in this annual family dinner.
We open a choice bottle of wine for the occasion,
vintage 1993,
and let it breathe while we fix your plate –
a portion of everything, served on a flat stone.
Then, we pour the wine –
five ounces for me, five for your mother,
and five on the ground
as a libation to your timeless smile, son.
We offer a moment of silence
at the end of a day of hard work
to remember the night you left us,
when your work on Earth had finished,
And after hugging your mother,
and wiping her tears,
I sigh, “I can’t believe it’s been fourteen years,”
as we kiss your headstone,
and leave you to your dinner
until next summer.
[comments] => 4
[counter] => 283
[topic] => 21
[informant] => butterat_zool
[notes] =>
[ihome] => 0
[alanguage] => english
[acomm] => 0
[haspoll] => 0
[pollID] => 0
[score] => 5
[ratings] => 1
[editpoem] => 1
[associated] =>
[topicname] => Lifepoems
)
Daniel
Contributed by
butterat_zool
on
Monday, 25th June 2007 @ 08:46:16 PM in AEST
Topic:
Lifepoems
|
Mounting the rolling hillside
after half an hour of brisk walking,
we arrive at the looming olive tree
with which we’d become unwillingly familiar.
We note the sun, approaching the zenith,
and begin to move the wood
that we cut and piled high
the day we first came back to this place.
Our work is brisk,
and our bottles of water unfulfilling,
as we pile dried grass and twigs
to build our ceremonial fire pit.
We scrub the iron cauldron clean,
add the wheat we milled last night,
some water, and some cracked salt
before lighting the fire.
As the water boils off to bake our bread,
we begin to prepare our meats –
A salmon caught in January,
encrusted, live, in salt,
And our pig, Eric, who just turned three.
Your mother straddles Eric, blade in hand,
careful not to scare him,
and pulls up and back powerfully,
dropping him in the olive tree’s tall shadow.
Meanwhile, I chisel the salmon
out of it’s salt cocoon,
and filet its rotten, shrunken belly,
discarding the innards with the blood-soaked salt.
Our kettle is removed as the bread finishes baking,
and we scrape the insides of the burning iron,
piling the unleavened crackers
next to the fish.
Then, we carve out three choice cuts
from Eric’s cooling, pink body,
skewer them,
and begin to roast them in the brightening fire.
Finally, an array of vegetables
are poured onto the ground and washed –
Potatoes, radishes, olives, figs,
thyme, endives, and black-eyed peas.
When the third star of the night comes out,
we dine, eating a fantastic feast
produced entirely by our hands and efforts,
unlike any available in our modern world.
We taste the countless hours spent gathering,
hunting, raising Eric, and, finally, cooking,
as we share in this annual family dinner.
We open a choice bottle of wine for the occasion,
vintage 1993,
and let it breathe while we fix your plate –
a portion of everything, served on a flat stone.
Then, we pour the wine –
five ounces for me, five for your mother,
and five on the ground
as a libation to your timeless smile, son.
We offer a moment of silence
at the end of a day of hard work
to remember the night you left us,
when your work on Earth had finished,
And after hugging your mother,
and wiping her tears,
I sigh, “I can’t believe it’s been fourteen years,”
as we kiss your headstone,
and leave you to your dinner
until next summer.
Copyright ©
butterat_zool
... [
2007-06-25 20:46:16]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
Advertisments:
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sorry, comments are no longer allowed for anonymous, please register for a free membership to access this feature and more
|
|
All comments are owned by the poster. Your Poetry
Dot Com is not responsible for the content of any
comment.
That said, if you find an offensive comment, please
contact via the FeedBack Form with details, including poem title
etc.
|
|
|
Re: Daniel
(User Rating: 1 )
by Dom on
Tuesday, 26th June 2007 @ 12:07:39 AM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
|
You took this poem in a way which I didn't expect, that final stanza is heart-wrenching.
I really liked the details in this as it highlights your devotion and care, and I thought the images were fine.
Lovely read,
Dom |
|
|
Re: Daniel
(User Rating: 1 )
by Neo-Theatre on
Tuesday, 26th June 2007 @ 10:14:33 AM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
|
Excellent.
The imagery of the first three strophes is concrete, free of abstraction, and you should be well pleased with them. Ditto the rest, really.
There is plenty to keep the reader intrigued. The slaying of the pig (Which is additionally interesting, considering the woman performs the act) coupled with gothic nouns (cauldron, blood, salt, etc) is effective and compelling. I'd replace the word "Pig" with "sow", just to build on this atmosphere. And do away with the pronoun "Eric" completely-this is too light and comical a name, and detracts from the diversion of the supposed ritual.
More:
Brightening fire-if you could somehow relate this to the declining light it would add to the atmosphere immensely.
Fantastic feast-too telly, and the alliteration is irksome.
Produced by our hands and efforts-redundant, insomuch that you have already shown me with excellent clarity that what has happened has been the fruit of personal labor.
The wine-Don't give the year of vintage, just say that is, or better still, replace the generic word "wine" with something more specific, eg, "We uncork a vintage Pinot Noir for the occasion". Definitely replace the word "open". I think Pinot Noir has excellent sonics-it sounds dark, doesn't it?
How about "then, we pour" instead of "then we pour (the wine) you don't need to tell me it is the wine that is being poured-this is redundant.
"At the end of a hard day's work"-redundant, also. You have already shown me the day.
Apart from these things, which are easily and entirely fixable, this is excellent, premium grade poetry. After a revision, I suggest you submit this somewhere for publication.
I would LOVE to see the revision.
Thankyou,
TNT. |
|
|
Re: Daniel
(User Rating: 1 )
by Neo-Theatre on
Tuesday, 26th June 2007 @ 12:14:15 PM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
|
And now, this:
An absolutely perfect substitute for the noun "Hillside" in the first line of S1 would be "Tor". It means hillside, or at least rolling hills.
In S4, how about "The wheat milled overnight" instead of "The wheat we milled last night".
In S13, L5, I think "five for the Earth" might fit better than "Five on the ground".
Nothing else. Excellent poem.
TNT. |
|
|
Re: Daniel
(User Rating: 1 )
by ladyfawn on
Thursday, 5th July 2007 @ 05:49:30 PM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
|
excellent vivid images, an enchanting haunting well woven tale, heartbreakingly sad the ending; yet so accepting of them- life does go on when we are left behind... this is an exquisite write,
hugs n' love nessa
roses |
|
|
|
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
